Readme dot txt
by Naisumi
Summary: Feel up to an AU fic where Scott is a disgruntled journalist, Lance is a quixotic rock star and Tabitha is still crazy? (; Tons of fun, I promise. [slash] [LanceScott] [AU] 9-5-03 FINAL CHAPTER NOW UPLOADED
1. New Document

Title: Readme.txt 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: PG-13 

Pairings: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance; Weasel/Forge, Forge/Weasel 

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. 

Spoilers: Nada. 

Warnings: Slash (m/m), AU (which means **Alternate Universe**, for those who don't know.) 

  


  


Notes: Yay! It is Nai's first fic in a bit O.o; 

This is an AU fic, where Scott is a journalist, Lance is a rock star, and Tabitha's still insane. Read on and enjoy :D It's funny! I swear! 

  


Additional Notes: Thank you _so_ much to my gals, the Evowriters :D I love you all!! *hugs* *gets teary-eyed* Omglet'srentacondoandhavesex. *sniffles* 

  


  


Enjoy and Review!!!...please? 

  


  


  


  


-- 

My name is Scott Summers, and I'm a journalist. No, not a reporter--a _journalist_. You see, there's a difference between simply reporting and being a _journalist_. Doesn't that sound more noble? Journa_lism_. Lousy news anchors don't get an "-ism" at the end of their career field, do they? Anyways, in my opinion, they don't get as much satisfaction, either. It's like in the detective stories; I feel like being a journalist means you've got to go out in the world and piece things together slowly. Like one of those tangrams or tan-whatevers. You know, those puzzles where they give you two squares and a trapezoid and you have to figure out which way to rotate the pieces to make the bigger picture?--Or a Rubric's cube; you've got to keep twisting and turning to find the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God. 

Okay, so maybe I have an idealized version of journalism in mind, but hell, I really believe it. The difference between being a reporter and being a journalist is that if you're dedicated, you're not just _reporting_ things; you're getting _in_ the story, and you're getting your hands dirty. 

And you get a snazzy tape recorder. 

Actually, a college-ruled, pocket-sized notepad after budget cuts, but hey, who's keeping track? 

I work at College Press Times, which is a lot more legitimate than it sounds. It's actually named after the street it's on--the intersection on College Road and Middleton, right on the corner next to the stand selling yellow apples--but tons of people think that we're just a college newspaper. You've got to wonder what genius decided to call it 'College Press.' And then, as if that weren't asinine enough, they stuck a 'Times' after it. I think they're planning on changing the name, but people are starting to like it. They call it 'CPT'--as in, "Yeah, Fred, I'm pickin' up a CPT today after work." 

Sounds like a surgical procedure, don't you think? An _expensive_ one, at that. 

There's one person who hates the name more than anyone else, though, and will always hate it, and that person is none other than the fabulous, irrepressible, man-hating Jean Grey. She's my best friend, and no, don't ask me to explain the 'man-hating' bit to you; I haven't been able to figure it out, either. I think she claims that she was some wacko, sect-leader femme nazi in a past life, but who knows. The story changes every time, even though the color orange is always somehow flamboyantly involved. If it comes to the gritty details, my only suggestion is: Don't ask. Come on, it's fun; you can pretend you're in the Air Force. 

Jean works down in the business department manning the ads, but I think she hangs out at the copy desk during her coffee break. It pisses the copy chief off, but I'm pretty sure the rest of the copy desk is glad for the break. Jean can really be a sight for sore eyes, and I don't say that lightly, either. She's been a real lifesaver in some situations, and I think I'd devolve into some hideous noir film investigator-wannabe if she weren't around. 

Jean comes up with outrageous headlines on her 'on' days. On her 'off' days, she stays strictly to business, which means that she yells at people for making the margins off or misspelling the name of our newspaper. Yes, folks, it does happen. Bizarre and kind of laughable, no? Besides outrageous headlines ("Iraq in infamous inquiry involving infrared instruments" being only one of them), Jean has been known to inexhaustibly attempt to convince editor-in-chiefs of the past to change our newspaper name. Or just to complain about changing the newspaper name. Today must've been an 'on' day. 

"What about the Cornerstreet Inquiry? We're on a street, and we're on a corner, aren't we?" Jean was looking rather smart this particular morning, with a business-length skirt and a matching blouse. And _heels_. I am still amazed by how fast she can walk in a pair of heels. I'm amazed at how fast _anyone_ can walk in a pair of heels. Can we all say "circus act"? 

"I think that's possibly worse than what we're called right now," I told her. 

"Okay, 'inquiry' is a bad idea," Jean said. She juggled the stack of manila envelopes in her arms, probably chock-full of photos and faxed statements. "How about...we keep the 'Press,' and we get rid of the 'College'?" 

"The Press Times?" I asked. "Sounds like a Laundromat." 

"Get serious, Scott," she said. "We have to come up with another name for this...this crummy...crummy--oh," She drifted off into mutters as she fumbled with a few envelopes. I slowed down and watched her nearly drop the whole lot of them. She glared at me, and I grinned as helplessly as I could. 

"You're such a--man," she said. 

"I guess I am." 

"Ha," Jean smiled prettily, and we continued walking again. "Anyways, I think we should add some locality to our name--how about...how about," she got distracted again, glancing at an envelope that was probably obsolete, as she immediately tossed it with a quick motion of her wrist into the trashcan of the nearest cubicle. The trashcan clattered haphazardly from one side to the other before it settled down again, and a baffled, "Hey, what...?" sounded very briefly over the noise of the keystrokes. I grinned. 

"How about you give it up, Jean," I suggested, gently taking the envelope she was currently inspecting with a deep frown, "because I hear upper management's gotten a change." 

"No, really?" Jean rolled her eyes and made a deliberately girly gesture with her hand. "You'll have to tell me all about it at the water cooler. We'll dish." 

"No one says that anymore," I said, standing to the side. We had reached my cubicle. Ah, home away from home. Well...it had coffee, at least. 

"How would you know?" Jean asked slyly, walking by me and snatching the envelope back. "We girls have a clubhouse and password now, you know." 

"How 21st century," I said. 

"I'll see you at lunch," she called over her shoulder. 

"1 o'clock," I agreed and reached up to brush my bangs from my forehead. I'd have to get them trimmed sometime. They were beginning to get to be a bother. 

My cubicle has all the essentials: a computer, loads of coffee, air freshener, and a stapler to fend off intruders. All I'm missing is a bathroom, bed and extra clothes, and I could do without the last two. As for eating, who does _that_ anymore? There's nothing that will make me a tormented literary "arteest" more than a tenacious internal struggle with chain-smoking and bulimia. 

Can you tell I've been spending too much time in coffee shops? I think I've begun developing intense bitterness toward the world in general, but I think that started a long time ago in an incident involving Jeeps, bungee cords, and lots and lots of mud. Yes, high school was the most fabulous time of my life. No, I'm not bitter. Maybe I _will_ laugh at all of the drunken losers that work at McDonald's when I see them all at our high school reunion. 

Usually I have a few minutes to get settled in my rat cage--check my e-mail, stuff like that--but this morning, I found a post-it note on my computer monitor telling me to see the editor-in-chief. An obnoxious, _neon yellow_ post-it note. Jesus, how professional. 

Recently, upper management had a haul-over. Our previous editor-in-chief, Ororo Munroe, left the CPT for bigger and better things. I hear she's gracing the staff of some Florida-based newspaper--the Miami Herald, I believe--as the head honcho. Their editor-in-chief is reportedly MIA, something to do with a freak accident involving, so I hear, iguanas and truckers. I don't know how true the last bit is, though. What I _do_ know is that our new editor-in-chief is a sleazy slob. 

His name's Pietro J. Maximoff, and the only reason he's our editor-in-chief is because Daddy Maximoff decided to give his son an early birthday present: A new powertrip. Hurray. This kid's only 23 years old; fresh out of the university bakery with all the scents of prep-school pricks up the wazzoo. He didn't even major in journalism specifically--he majored in business relations or something equally as CEO-tyrant-ish. Look: Just thinking about him is making me so angry I'm making up new words. 

As soon as he moved into Ororo's old office, he threw out the clock and bought a new chair. He also bought these new, asinine post-it notes for the sole reason, I suspect, that he can. Jesus, I hate him. Jean does, too, but for another reason. Well, another reason other than the fact that he's a man, apparently; he's been trying to sleep with her step-sister, Katherine Pryde, since forever. Just another notch on his bedpost, too. I think Jean hired someone to make a voodoo doll of him. I think she should've asked for a sticker on his ass that said, "Caution: Ego is in direct inverse proportion to the size of this replication." I think I'll tell her that. 

Right after a visit to the Wonderful Wizard of Ostentation. 

Pietro--I know I ought to call him 'Mr. Maximoff,' but I always refer to him as Pietro in my head--had completely redone the office. Ororo had always kept things efficient and well-lighted; everything was practical and everything had a purpose. Pietro's office, on the other hand, just screamed "sexual harassment." Yeah, Jean was going to love _this_. 

"Scott Summers," Pietro said when I knocked on his open door, "just the man I wanted to see." 

He had his feet propped up on his desk. When I came in, he grinned at me. Obnoxious little snot. 

"How's Red?" he asked. 

"Fine." Jean hated it when anyone called her "Red." Said that it made her feel like chewing gum. 

"Mm-hm," Pietro said in a voice the obviously showed that he hadn't really given a damn anyway and had just been asking for the sake of small talk. 

"You haven't changed at all," I told him. We'd gone to the same private high school; I had gotten a scholarship, and he had gotten a loving withdrawal from Daddy's bank account. 

"Thanks," Pietro said with a brief flash of his pearly whites. I hadn't meant it as a compliment, but chose to refrain from speaking. God, it was like riding an airplane. Please remain seated and keep your accurate, though albeit offensive, comments in an upright, completely shut manner until you have left the office. _Jesus_, water cooler talk, my ass. Jean was going to have an absolute aneurysm after she saw this guy again. 

"Now, you usually write news articles, correct?" Pietro was now shuffling a few folders, looking very important. Yeah, real fucking important. You're moving papers from the left side of your desk to the right. Thrilling. 

"Yes, I usually do the investigative--" 

"Well," Pietro wet a finger and flipped a page in one portfolio. I held back a shudder. Maximoff cooties. "I'm afraid that you'll have to make do with an Arts and Entertainment article for the time being." 

'Make do'? Who the hell says 'make do' anymore? What _23-year-old_ says 'make do'? Jesus, I was getting a headache already, and it was only eight in the morning. 

"Arts and Entertainment?" I asked. 

"Yes, they tell me that our main A&E writer is out with mono." 

Ah, that'd be Kurt. Someone ought to tell our beloved Pietro here that Kurt was out with mono every other month. Of course, the line starts ten years from now, and I wasn't about to be at the head of it. Ororo had managed to figure it out herself--though Kurt suspects that she had help from her wayward nephew Evan, who had been trying to score points as the resident intern--and we had _liked_ Ororo. I can't imagine Pietro ever finding out simply because everyone would probably even _help_ Kurt cover up. In fact, I think I'm coming down with something myself. 

"Oh, really?" I asked, feigning concern. 

Pietro eyed me and slid the portfolio over to me. 

"I want you to interview him," he said, pointing at the name circled at the top of the folder, "and then write a very detailed report about the inside rock 'n' roll scene." 

He grinned at me, and I reminded myself that Pietro was our _editor-in-chief_, and no, you don't climb the corporate ladder or _any_ ladder, for that matter, if you violently mutilate your boss. 

"I don't know anything about rock music." And he _knew_ it, that bastard. 

"Then I'm sure it'll be a learning experience for all parties involved," Pietro said. 

Yeah, screw you. "What am I supposed to write about?" 

"Oh, _I_ don't know, Mr. Summers," Pietro said, watching the oh-so-interesting ceiling now. He had obviously gotten distracted. Jesus, he's like a chimpanzee. "This guy's only the most influential artist of his fifteen minutes." 

"Really?" I asked. 

"Says _Rolling Stones_," Pietro said. And enter name-dropping from the right wing. 

"Oh," I said, mainly because I was too busy thinking mean and dirty words. I can't multitask too well. If I'm cursing someone out in my head, most of the time I can't simultaneously carry on an intelligent conversation. Which doesn't really matter, anyway, at this point in time, since I'd get _interrupted by the evil little gremlin who was accidentally appointed editor-in-chief out of some horrible mistake involving tax returns and the soup of the day_. That's only my opinion, of course. 

"Anyways," Pietro said. "Read up, because tomorrow you're going to one of his shows. It's investigative reporting, you see, Scott," he grinned at me again. "It's right down your alley." 

I'll tell you who's right down my alley. Being strangled beside a conveniently placed dumpster, that is. "I don't know about this, Mr. Maximoff." 

"Just improvise," Pietro waved his hand. "Figure out the effect of rock 'n' roll music on the youth of today or something." 

"How's that relevant?" I wondered aloud, hoping that none of my sarcasm slipped through. 

"Who knows," Pietro said. "Maybe every time he pierces his unmentionables, the stock market rockets." 

Thanks for the lovely mental image. "Okay, then." 

"You have, oh, I don't know, a week or two." 

"A week or two? Isn't that...extensive?" 

Pietro gave me a decidedly bored look, "I gave it to you early so that you could follow him around. You know, get a feel for the scene, " 

Follow him around? Like a stalker? "Oh." 

"Anyways, his people have been informed that you're to replace Mr. Wagner. All the details are in there," Pietro nodded at the portfolio I was holding. Well, gee, thanks, Charlie. I'm glad that the Angels and I are getting advance notice. 

"Alright, I'll get on it," I said. 

"Mm-hm," Pietro said, now deeply scrutinizing the latest edition of USA Today. 

I showed myself out, portfolio in hand, and surveyed the damage. 

Bright side: I had been running out of neutral comments to make, and now there was no longer the threat of accidentally blurting out that I thought his severed head would make a fantastic conversation piece. 

Flip side: I had to write an article on _rock 'n' roll_. Kurt and his kissing disease were going to get a visit. 

  


  


  


  


"Man, you get to interview _him_?" Kurt sounded just dandy. But wait--was that a touch of static on the phone I sensed? Life-threatening, I'm sure. 

"What, are you a fan?" I asked. 

"Me? Pfft--no," Kurt laughed a little, perfectly awake for someone with mono. "But tons of people are. Vhat's your slant?" 

"That's just it," I said, rifling through the packet of information the A&E editor had prepared for me. It might've been written in gibberish for all I understood. "I have no clue." 

Kurt laughed even harder. "Vow, they couldn't have chosen a vorse person, huh?" 

"Thanks," I said sarcastically. 

Kurt Wagner was another high school classmate of mine, though my sentiments toward him were completely different than those toward Pietro, the Head Brat. Kurt and Jean dated for about two days before she banned him from her personal space, and so they parted ways. It'd been a bad idea from the beginning, in my opinion; Jean and Kurt are complete and total opposites. Jean managed to organize the entire world--color-coded with little plastic tabs, too--in cabinets, drawers and closets. With Kurt--forget about actually taking the effort to _shelve_ things; he actually _couldn't_ find anything if it wasn't on the floor or in plain sight. Jean liked nice little bistros with amaretto coffee and biscotti. Kurt liked extra-sized Pepsi, burgers and vinyl seat covers. Jean's idea of a good time was dancing and movies. Kurt's was the glorified sports of paintball and laser tag. 

Yeah, _that_ was going to work out. 

Kurt's first choice for a career wasn't actually journalism; he currently had a side project going on: a little comic book called _Blind Fish in a Deuce_. I have no idea what the hell it's about, but he likes calling it Biffed. He'd tried explaining the plot to me and failed miserably. I think he realized how much of a lost cause I am when he mentioned some guy named Jhonen Vasquez and I looked at him like he was completely nuts. Then, when he started talking about some comic book--_Lenore_, I think it was called; something about little dead girls and killing--and I asked what he was talking about, he completely lost faith in me. He's got this whole thing about manga or magna or whatever, too. I think he was ready to kill me when I asked what some group was--CLAMP, I think it was. So sue me if I'd rather read a good ol' fashioned book instead of a graphic novel! Jesus. 

Fanatic that he is, Kurt and I get along pretty well. You'd think we wouldn't, since I tend to quietly sidestep the crazy, extremist type, but we're pretty good friends. He teases me for being--in his words, not mine--a "cardigan-bound prude," and I make fun of how he is very German and very un-Japanese, as he'd rather be. I think he also hates my music --jazz, classical, things like that. I kind of like oldies, too. Kurt, though, I think, would be termed a "head-banger." I don't know. He's pretty crazy about his music, but he listens to a whole load of different stuff. I think the only band we've ever agreed on was the Beatles, or maybe the Eagles, who he likes for some reason. 

"Look," Kurt said, "Vhy don't you come over tonight, and I'll tell you all I know?" 

"I don't know," I said. "I have a ton of stuff to look over." 

"Oh, Bobby prepped you?" 

"If you can call it that," I said wryly. Bobby Drake knew what he was writing about, but the problem is that I don't. Even terms that are probably standard--like 'EP' and 'LP'--are completely foreign to me. In other words, I was screwed. 

"Why couldn't he've just given me an article about the exponential increase in the financial instability of automobile investments?" I complained. 

"Vait, back up," Kurt said, sounding mildly alarmed. "Define 'he.'" 

"Oh, right," I said. "While you were out on sick leave," here Kurt made an enormous and valiant attempt to sound like he was coughing up his spleen, "we got a new editor-in-chief." 

"Oh, no," Kurt actually sounded disappointed. "Ororo _left_?" 

"Good for her, I say," I said, "but her leaving isn't the worst part." 

"Oh, no," Kurt repeated. "Vho exploded in a mass of pink slime over Jean again?" 

"No," I said, "I really mean it. This is _bad_." Welcome to the grapevine, Scott Summers. I'll just pour myself some fruit punch and make a nametag that says "Operator." 

"Vhat is it?" 

"Pietro Maximoff," I said, trying to hush the harsh sound of the x in Pietro's last name, just in case. 

There was a stunned silence over the phone. Then: "Vell, I'm done." 

"What?" I blinked. 

"I quit." There was the sound of paper ripping. "Two veek's notice, ja?" 

"Shut up," I said. "You're not quitting." 

"Fuck, man," Kurt actually _did_ sound sick now. "I _hate_ that guy!" 

"Which is why you have to stick around," I said. 

"He'll fire me," he said. 

"Not when he can make you work weekends." 

"Fuck," Kurt said again. 

"Language," I reminded him. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he said, just for my benefit. "Maybe he's gotten better?" 

"Sorry," I said. I could practically hear him wilt. "I saw him a few minutes ago and, if anything, he's worse." 

"How's that even _possible_?" Kurt exclaimed. "I vas ready to rig his locker vith explosives ten years ago!" 

"Yeah," I said. "Take that anger and crank it up fifteen notches." 

"Jesus," Kurt groaned. 

"Anyways..." I could still hear Kurt emulating the wildlife of the seventh ring of hell. I was just the harbinger of joy today, wasn't I? "I have to get back to work." 

"_Jesus_," Kurt said very emphatically, as if he were trying to summon the first born of the Virgin Mary Himself. 

"Now click your heels together and wish for home," I suggested. 

"Oh, shut up--_God_, I can't believe--!" Kurt's voice became a distant, angry blur of noise as I set the phone down discreetly in its cradle. I had the feeling that this was just the motivation that Kurt needed to get his comic book finished. Maybe he could change the title of it to fit the occasion more, too, like: "Operation: Avoid the Coming of the Anti-Christ," or "And It Came From The Swamp." Hmm. I'm kind of getting inspired to plug away at the drawing board myself. 

All joking aside, it was four-and-some hours later, and I still had no clue about what I was supposed to write about. I'd looked up some of the aforementioned terms and I had brainstormed a few broad, generic questions to ask ("Who or what were your influences?"), but I was still nowhere close to being ready for tomorrow. It was 12:50 already, and I still didn't understand what math rock was--or indie, for that matter. "It's like porn"? Thanks, Epitonic.com; that's plenty helpful. 

"Sco-tt," Jean was looming over my keyboard the minute I finally chose to stop willing QWERTY, the mystical savior of 'I Can't Type' land, to end my misery. 

"Je-an," I said. I must've looked really pitiful, too, because she just ruffled my hair and tugged on my shirt collar, 

"C'mon, you look like you need to get boned." 

"No male strippers," I warned as I let her lead me out of my cubicle complex. 

"They have an hourly rate, if it makes you feel better," Jean replied over her shoulder. 

"Jesus, Jean," I said. And, to show you how braindead I was from all the rock-metal-punk-what? gobbledygook that I'd been trying to comprehend, I added, "None of them is that hot anyway." 

"You're the pickiest gay guy I've ever known," Jean complained. "You're almost like a woman." 

"Yes, queen me with a Maxipad, and let me join your clubhouse," I mumbled, my inherent irritation toward the world shining through despite it all. 

"Wow, you're so sunny I can't help but wonder why you don't have a boyfriend," Jean replied sarcastically. 

"Oh, bite me," I grumbled. 

Jean arched a fine eyebrow at me and elbowed open the glass door to our local Arabica, asking, "Who got beaned by the grouchy fairy?" 

"The same person who missed his naptime," I said. 

Jean found a corner booth with low lights, and I immediately buried my head in my arms when I sat down. 

"Guess who our new editor-in-chief is," I said, feeling my breath waft back at me, warm. 

Jean grinned at me, green eyes flickering up briefly before returning intently on her purse, which she was rummaging through. 

"I actually asked people not to tell me so we could _dish_," she joked. 

"Pietro Maximoff," I said dully, my voice muffled. 

There was a loud clatter and a sharp, "Ouch!" and when I looked up, Jean had the tip of her ring finger in her mouth, nursing a paper cut. 

"You're joking," she said darkly. "Scott, that's _not_ funny!" 

"I'm not trying to be funny," I protested. "I saw him this morning." 

"Did he poof up in a cloud of brimstone and fire?" Jean was now glaring at her purse. 

"Unfortunately, no," I said, grinning a little at the thought. Jean, on the other hand, made the most offended sound I've ever heard in my entire life and stood up. 

"I'm getting a turkey club," she said, practically spitting out the word 'club.' I would've laughed if I didn't share her sentiments. 

"Get me one, too," I told her glumly, handing her a fiver. 

"Pietro Maximoff," Jean repeated when she had finished ordering and had sat back down. She shook her head in disbelief. "I thought we'd seen the last of that little creep in high school." 

"You didn't have to go to college with him," I reminded her. 

"Well, yes," she chewed on her bottom lip, "but at least you two had different majors. You didn't run into each other that much, did you?" 

"No, we actually didn't." I'd finished most of my general education requirements when Pietro had entered the undergrad program. However, I suspect the little tyrant had deliberately sought me out to bother me. That bastard. 

"He took the liberty of assigning me some half-assed story," I said as Jean returned with our lunches. I picked at the crust of my sandwich. Jean had gotten us both lemonade was now swirling the ice cubes around in hers with her straw. 

"What's it about?" she asked. I could tell she was still fuming about Pietro's gall to exist. 

"Rock music," I sighed. 

Jean stifled a giggle. "You--rock?" 

"Shut up," I grumbled. "It's not funny. I have no idea what to write." 

"Mm," she was mid-sip, "Do you have to interview someone?" 

"Uh--yeah," I tried to think of the name. "A, uh--Lance...?" Yeah, that was it. Some guy who sounded like he belonged in a boy band. "Lance...Alvers?" 

Jean stared at me, her sandwich halfway to her mouth. She then took a small bite, set it down, and promptly reached over and grabbed my hand in the grip of death. 

"You're joking." 

"No, I'm really not," I said. What, was everything I said so unbelievable? I should carry around a polygraph with me to show people that I'm not lying. _Je_sus. 

"You're _joking_!" 

"No, no--Ow! What is it?" I made a face and attempted to pry her fingers off of me. "Do you know about him or something?" 

"Have you _seen_ him?" she asked. 

"God," I rolled my eyes, "is he an Adonis or something?" 

"Well, no," Jean said, now thoughtfully crunching on one of the 'non-greasy, full of flavor' potato chips they had given us. "He's not pretty like you are." 

"Oh, _thanks_," I mumbled. I honestly hated it when she talked about things like this. And I wasn't _pretty_, dammit! 

"He's hot, though," Jean concluded. "Kitty really likes him." 

"She does?" Kitty also liked NSync. This was starting to disturb me. 

"Yep, weird, huh?" Jean grinned at me, and I shook my head, finishing my sandwich and leaving a suspiciously yellow pickle by itself in the black, plastic basket everything had come in. 

"Jean," I started. "I really don't--" 

"Trust me, he really is," Jean said. 

I made a face. Jean liked Heath Ledger and Leonardo DiCaprio. 

"Why don't I judge for myself?" I suggested mildly. Jean had that wild look in her eyes, the one that meant she was about to rant about men and how we should all live in giant breeding houses and be branded on the asses with the Snapple logo. I'm not sure how she was going to pull that off and simultaneously attempt to convince me that Mr. Alvers, Rock Star Extraordinaire, was hot, but I'm certain she would've found some way for it to work. 

"I think I have a picture of him in my purse," Jean said. 

"You have a picture of _what_ in your purse?" Since when did Jean carry around pictures of celebrities in her purse? 

She sniffed a little. "I'm holding it for Kitty." 

Ri-ight. "Okay." 

"I _am_." 

"O_kay_!" I coughed and sat back a little. Maybe I shouldn't have told her that Pietro was the new editor-in-chief; it seemed to have knocked something loose in her skull. Like common sense. Completely gone--just like that. Oops. 

"Oh, here it is." Jean withdrew a small laminated piece of paper the size of a business card. It had the initials "K.P.G." on the back, so I guess it really _was_ Kitty's, but come on. Do you really think I was going to let Jean go that easily? 

"You _stole_ it from your little sister?" I pretended to be horrified. 

"Don't make me beat you," Jean warned and slid the card over to me. 

"Yeah, like you'd--" 

And then I gawked. 

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I actually did gawk. 

"Find your soulmate?" Jean smirked. 

"Shut up," I said listlessly and picked up the little 3x5 slip. Well, damn. I guess I was wrong. This guy didn't belong in a boy band, unless this was the Bizarro world. Jesus, though. If this guy was the one I was supposed to... 

"Shit," I said. 

Jean practically cackled. "Not bad, is he?" 

"Is that--a _mullet_?" 

"Oh, you're just picky," Jean said loftily, reclaiming the picture and tucking it neatly into her purse. I grinned at her. 

"So, Miss Grey," I said. "What do _you_ know about rock music?" 

She smiled very prettily at me, though I still felt like I was the main course of lunch from the expression on her face. 

"You can come over," she suggested, "and I'll let you listen to my boyfriend's CD collection." 

Ray Crisp, Jean's boyfriend, was a little crazy. He listens to what I term "hairball" music. In other words, half the so-called lyrics to the songs he listens to is either profane or incoherent. No, boys and girls, "mmphhziigbah!" is not a word. If you have any doubts, please refer to the unabridged Mr. Webster so that he can kick your ass with his heavyweight-championship-winning 2,000-some pages. 

"That's okay," I said. "I already got an offer from Kurt." 

"Oh," Jean said darkly. "I see." 

If I had any sense of self-preservation at all, I needed to get out of Arabica _now_ and return safely to my cubicle. 

"Uh, well..." I cleared my throat and tried to look very important, glancing at my watch and looking around for a clock to verify the time. 

"You're calling me tomorrow," Jean informed me, "after the interview. Okay?" 

"Sure," I said. 

"_Scott_," Jean said, quirking an eyebrow. 

Dammit. What did she think I was? One of her ditzy girlfriends? Did I _look_ like Amara? 

"Yeah, yeah, alright," I groused. 

"Oh, good," Jean beamed at me. "Kitty'll be thrilled, you know." 

"Could you maybe not tell her?" I asked. 

"Are you joking?" 

No, I'm _not_, okay?! "Would it really kill her to not know that--" 

"That her sister's best friend was mere inches from her idol of the month?" Jean gave me a withering look. "Do you _want_ me to die?" 

"How horrible would the death be?" I mused. 

"A horrible, beanie baby-induced death," Jean supplied creatively, "like being smothered in tie-dyed marshmallows of doom." 

"Oh," I said. "How pleasant." 

"Yeah. Get her an autograph, would you?" Jean pulled out a pad of post-its, wrote me a brief note, and, peeling it off, stuck it on my forehead. She grinned. "Please?" 

"Well, since you asked so nicely..." I said, looking at her purse. Jesus, she was like Mary Poppins or something. 

"Mm-hm," Jean uncrossed her legs, stood up, and emptied our baskets before leaving them on top of a nearby trashcan. 

I unstuck the post-it with my forefinger and thumb and eyed with distaste the cross-eyed smiley face that was sticking its tongue at me. Beside it was written the words, "Don't forget!" All in caps, too. 

"Real mature," I observed. 

"Why, thank you," Jean laughed and linked our arms. I rolled my eyes at her as we left Arabica and wondered why the day was going so damn slow. 

  


  


  


  


Jesus, I was in hell. 

No, actually, I was just in extremely close quarters with about eighty tons of tightly packed teenage punk-rocker, all of whom were trying to outdo the spikes on the person next to them and that person's pet hedgehog. There was a green-haired girl wearing a bright yellow tank top and a skirt that looked like someone had trashed a disco ball and wrapped it around her hips. Next to her was a kid--I couldn't tell if it was a guy or a girl--dressed almost entirely in fishnet except for the essentials, which had patchworks of orange and green vinyl for protection. 

_Jesus_. 

Bits of their conversation wafted over to me. 

"...artsy emo vomit of everyone else today," said the nongender-specified kid. "God, I hate them all." 

"I hate them all, too," the green-haired girl agreed, sounding half-asleep. Yeah, and I'm sure 'they' all just _love_ you. I rolled my eyes and pressed close to the entrance hall's wall. As I crept past them, I secretly thought up names for them. 

"Fucking posers," the Fishnetted One replied. 

"Oh, my Goddess, yes," said Miss Sleazy Cindy loudly. She looked around to see if anyone had heard her, as if she had said something declarative of her status in the 'in' crowd. 

'Oh, my Goddess'? What the hell was _that_? 

I had gotten completely lost in the swarm of waiting fans now, and I couldn't help but wonder who the hell would give a concert at two in the afternoon anyway. Luckily, I made it out of the jungle of angry, angsty teenagers and found the more reserved and slightly less angry, angsty college crew. 

I must've looked really out-of-place (like I didn't know that before) because one kid clapped me on the shoulder, yelling, "Bogart!" 

Now, tell me how that makes sense. 'Bogart'? First of all, if they're referring to my vintage coat, then they're just wrong. Humphrey Bogart wore an entirely different shade of brown on the set of the movie, so I'm told. Second of all, _what_? 

Of course, I still jumped practically forty feet in the air. 

"Christ," I muttered. 

"Hey," I heard from behind me, and I nearly went into cardiac arrest right then and there. I turned around, and there was a guy dressed in the slouchiest jeans possible and a baggy black t-shirt with the word 'Pavement' scribbled across the front in brick red. He also had on this hugeass spiked collar. I swear, if I ever try one of those things on, I'll take a breath or something and immediately die from puncture wounds. 

"Uh?" I tried not to look too confused. 

The guy quirked an eyebrow at me and glanced down at something in his hands. "You dropped your, uh...press pass, yo." 

"What?--Oh!" I hastily grabbed the pass from him and nearly asphyxiated on the spot. "Thanks." 

"Hey, you from a newspaper or something?" The girl next to the kid leaned a little closer to look at my pass, and I instinctively took a step back. She reminded me of the guy in fishnets; she had a funky violet number on that was solid on her torso but had fishnets from shoulder to wrist, and she was wearing loose bondage pants, not to mention an entire barrage of silvery metal piercings, rings, bracelets and other jewelry. Shit, how did these people get through metal detectors? 

"Um, yes. The College Press Times," I replied, feeling slightly nervous. 

"Never heard of them," the girl said flippantly, and her boyfriend--apparently, from the way he had his hand in her back pocket--asked, 

"You here to see Antisthenes?" 

"Uh, yes," I answered hesitantly. Antisthenes was the name of the ever-sought-after Lance Alver's band. I thought that it was an interesting choice myself; I remembered reading some of Antisthenes' works in college. He was a Greek philosopher from around 444 B.C. who founded Cynicism, so it'd be interesting to see if the band's music gave a nod to him. 

"Shibby," the kid grabbed my hand, shook it once, and gestured to his bored-looking girlfriend, who'd lost interest in my existence; "This's Wanda, and I'm Todd." 

"Umm, Scott," I said, smiling weakly. 

Todd grinned secretively at me, "Y'know, Wanda and I were just headin' to the side door." 

"Side door," I repeated. 

"Yeah, man," Todd jerked his head to the side; his longish bangs had been in his eyes slightly. "You wanna hang 'round with these jerk-offs, or do you wanna get backstage quick?" 

"How do you know about it?" I asked, surprised. They hadn't mentioned any side entrance to me. 

"Hell, I'm tight with one o' the security guards," Todd waved it off. "Follow me." 

Todd--Tolensky was his last name, age 20, Bayville University, majoring British Lit--led me down a dimly lit hall, chattering all the while. He had lots of energy, and ten minutes in, I realized that I didn't have half a clue about what he was talking about--but he _did_. 

"Wait," I said, "so you've been following these guys from the very beginning?" 

"Well, not the _very_ beginning," Todd said. 

Wanda snorted, walking a good distance from her boyfriend. "You'd never think it from the way he goes on." 

"Shit," Todd said, "I knew one of their guitarists--Jinx?" 

Jubilation 'Jinx' Lee--I'd read about her. 

"Yeah?" I asked. "How'd you know her?" 

Todd grinned, "She was in one of my remedial summer classes in high school--art. Nice chick; I think her parents're pissed that she's in a fuckin' rock band, though." 

"Really?" I blinked. "Even after all the critical acclaim they've received?" 

"Eh," Todd shrugged, "you know parents. Nothin's good 'nough for 'em." 

"Oh," I said. Whatever you say. 

"Todd," I heard someone call. I turned to look and saw a big guy all decked out in professional black along with a headset. He waved us over. 

"Hey, Freddy," Todd said, lighting up. 

"How's the band comin' along?" Freddy asked. 

"Oh, 's okay," Todd said. 

"He has a band?" I asked Wanda. 

"They're crap," Wanda said vaguely. 

How supportive of you. "I'm sure they're not that bad." 

"They play this lo-fi shit," Wanda replied, rolling her eyes. 

Lo-fi? What was...? Lo-fi, lo-fi--I think I'd read somewhere that Antisthenes was "lo-fi." 

"Isn't, you know, Antisthenes...lo-fi?" I asked, seriously hoping that I wasn't saying something completely asinine. 

Wanda shrugged. "It's different." 

Yeah, great. I bet Antisthenes is indie, too. _Like porn_. 

"Hey," Todd said then, leaning an elbow on my shoulder, "this is Scott." 

"Hello," I said nervously. I _really_ hoped this wasn't illegal or something. Maybe I should've just waited up front like everyone else? 

"Hey," Freddy said. 

"He's got a press pass," Todd said and nudged me. I held it up, and Fred squinted at it. 

"Okay," he said. "This way." 

"Are we getting through?" Wanda asked. 

"Hell, we would've gotten through anyway," Todd said. 

"Shit," Wanda said. "Are we gonna meet the band?" 

"I don't think I'm allowed to let you do that," Freddy said, holding the door open. "But you can head out to th'pit." 

"Um," I said. 

"Shit," Wanda said again and latched onto my arm. Ow. Sharp nails. "Aren't you gonna interview Lance?" 

"Well, yes," I began. 

"He's gonna write an article," Todd said, grinning, "so of course he's gonna interview 'im." 

"Well, fuck," Wanda said. I think I was beginning to lose feeling in my arm. "Can't you just take me with you?" 

"I'm pretty sure I'm not allowed to do that," I said mildly. 

"C'mon, Wanda," Todd said, tugging on her sleeve. "Let's go out and watch 'em set up." 

Wanda finally let go of my arm and gave me the dirtiest look I've ever seen before sniffing and following her boyfriend. 

"Jesus," I said. 

"Yeah, she's a bitch," Freddy said, eyeing Wanda with distaste. 

"You don't like her?" I asked. 

Freddy snorted incredulously, "Yeah, right. I think she's just usin' Todd for free concerts." 

"Oh," I said. Hm. I wonder if this made her a "fucking poser"? I bet Miss Raver Barbie and Druggie Lestat out there would've loved her. 

"Fifth door on your right," Freddy said to me then. "You wanna look for a chick named Tabitha Smith." 

Ah. Antisthenes' agent. 

"Alright," I said. "Thanks." 

I decided that I hated rock shows as I ventured down the corridor. That, and I was pretty sure that this place had questionable sanitation. I wasn't about to try to find out for sure, of course, by doing something stupid like actually going to one of the restrooms, but, in any case, I had a feeling that I'd be able to testify to the amount of beer and vomit that was on the floor by the end of the night. Jesus, what was that thing called again? The _pit_? How cheerful is _that_? One thing I knew was that I was staying the hell away from it. Didn't they mosh there? Moshing is bad. And painful. At least, I'd imagine so. Maybe it was actually very relaxing? Or maybe not. 

After passing a few doors with suspicious dark stains on them (were those teeth marks?), I found one that had a placard on it. A very professional and high-quality placard. Made out of construction paper. It had a half of a name on it written in gold marker, "Tabith," which trailed off into squiggles. Oh, the marvelous glory of the music industry. 

I started to knock on the door, but it opened very abruptly right before I touched it just as an all-too-chipper voice called out, 

"Mr. Summers!" 

"Ms. Smith," I said hesitantly. Tabitha Smith stood, limbs akimbo, and grinned at me with black lipstick and dark mauve eyeshadow before ushering me in by the elbow. 

She was a snappy-looking blonde who was wearing bright pink tube socks with brighter purple heels and a sporty red business skirt-and-blouse combo to top it off. She also had huge white seashell earrings that were bright against her hair, which was about chin-length and had been spiked to fan out behind her head. 

Great. Agent or bandmate? 

"From the College Times, right?" Tabitha asked me, practically flinging me onto a sagging couch. She likewise hurled herself into the desk chair and propped her feet up on the desk opposite me. Oh, look, how nice: She has an anklet that says 'sex.' 

"Um, College Press Times," I corrected quietly. "I'm here to--?" 

"Of _course_ you are," Tabitha beamed and inspected her fuchsia nails. They were tipped with mint green. I could practically feel Jean twitching from aesthetic pain. 

"Now, I hear your little editor-i-c is paying for this little tête-à-tête? Two weeks, honey, that's a lot." 

"They won't even notice me," I promised. Looks like Daddy Maximoff was a proud sponsor of rock 'n' roll, whether he knew it or not. 

"It's real unusual," Tabitha remarked, now peering at her thumbnail. Yes, Ms. Smith, an uneven tip is much more important than the band you represent. And my, how...colorfully you represent them, too. "But I don't think we should have a problem." 

"Okay," I said. "Should I--?" 

"We're going to Cleveland tomorrow," Tabitha grinned. "So pack up and meet us at the Linx hotel lobby tonight, okay? Eight o'clock sharp. Actually, your interview's a dinner date, isn't it? Fantastic. Alright then, swing by and drop your stuff off and then--" 

"Wait, _what_?" I asked, startled. 

Tabitha laughed, "Oh, you little sugarcube, I could just eat you with a spoon." 

Was I supposed to be flattered by that? "My boss didn't say--" 

"Oh, c'mon," Tabitha said, now filing her unruly nail. "You get a free roadtrip. You get to do the band. See those kids out there waiting for the doors to open?" 

She grinned at me. "They're all _hating_ you right now." 

Great. Just what I wanted. Busloads of angry, angsty, potentially mentally disturbed kids and perpetual teens to hate my guts. That is, busloads of angry, angsty, potentially mentally disturbed kids and perpetual teens with sharp objects conveniently on their persons. Jesus, I hate the world. More specifically, I hate one very damned Pietro Maximoff. 

"I--" 

"God, what do you use on your _hair_?" Tabitha pitched herself across the desk and liberally molested my bangs. 

"Um," I said. "White Rain?" Don't think about it, Scott. Just don't. 

"Mm," she said. "Coconut?" 

"Um," I said again very coherently. Scott, you're going to that bad place. _Don't think about it_! 

"Oh!" Tabitha sat back down again and glanced at her Kermit wristwatch. "Showtime, pretty boy!" 

"What?" I asked. 

"C'mon, Mr. Sooner," she said, hopping up and hauling me to my feet by my elbow again. She very happily dragged me out of the office just as I began to wonder whether or not I accidentally wandered into an insane asylum. 

"Um, it's Sum--" 

"You wanna go in the pit?" Tabitha asked cheerfully. 

"Actually, I'd rather no--" 

"Okie-doke," she said. "In you go!" 

"Wait, I--" I began, nearly at a shout, but she had already pushed me through the door, down the ramp, and--guess what?--back to hell again. 

_Fuck_.   


  


  


  


  
  


  


~tbc~ 


	2. Default Paragraph Font

Title: Readme.txt 

Part: 2/? 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: PG-13 

Pairings: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance; Weasel/Forge, Forge/Weasel 

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. 

Spoilers: Nada. 

Warnings: Pre-slash (m/m relationship), AU (which means **Alternate Universe**, for those who don't know.) 

  


  


Notes: And Scott's zany adventure continues! You get to meet Lance this time, boys and girls (; Fun for the entire family. Uh. Yes. >.> There's really nothing to note in this chapter, except that Lance says the word 'fuck' a _lot_. :D 

  


  


Additional Notes: My thanks go out to my lovely reviewers and supporters; **Morwen O'Conner**, **N**, **Lyo**, **Olhado**, **Sheena**, **ShadowCreature**, **Tera**, **Flick**, **Absolute Alcohol**, **Katreon of Team Socket**, **Shirt_Ninjas Impersonator**, **TurtleClarinet**, **Laureate**, **Pyromaniac**, **Omega Orange**, **Katherine**, **Agar**, **MiracleChick**, **Mercuria**, and last, but definitely not least, **VertigoMesmerizer**. I love you all!! *weepy* Thank you so much!! 

  


  


Additional-er Notes: If any of you are Harry Potter fans, then I highly recommend my friend Terra's "Life Had Just Begun". It's completely finished, so there's no wait, and it involves angsty first-person James (; What's not to love? Check it out sometime! 

  


  


  


**Special News Bulletin:** Ladies and gents, the **Blind Fish Archive** is officially open! 

Check it out, y'all. (;   


  


Enjoy and Review!!!...please? 

  


  


  


  


-- 

"Jesus." 

"Scott? Is that you?" 

"_Jesus_!" 

"Hello, Mr. Messiah, sir. Please don't end the world yet. I still have to squeeze out a few brat bastards first." 

"Jean." 

A giggle. "Where are you?" 

"In the restroom." 

"What? Aren't you at the concert?" 

"Yes." 

"Well, why aren't you--?" 

"Jean." 

"...Yes?" 

"I can't find my tie." 

"What?" 

"Or my coat." 

"_What_?" 

A loud squish. "_Jesus_, what did I just step in?" 

"Scott--" 

"You have to get me out of here. It was _horrible_." 

"What was?" 

"God, I think someone licked my _forehead_!" 

"_Scott_!" 

"I'm traumatized, Jean." 

"What?" 

"_Traumatized_." 

"What _happened_?" 

A pause. Quiet sigh. "They threw me into the moshpit." 

Silence. 

"Jean?" 

More silence. 

"...Jean?" 

A muffled giggle. 

"...Jean. This isn't--" 

Chuckling. "Scott...Sc--Scott, they--" More giggling. 

"Jean! This isn't fun--oh, _jeez_, I think someone grabbed my--!" 

Uncontrollable laughing. 

"Jea--" 

"Oh, _Scott_--I--I don't know what to--" More laughing. 

"Je--Ugh." 

Click. 

... 

... 

... 

... 

"...hehehe..." 

  


  


  


  


I wandered backstage after I'd recomposed myself--sans jacket and tie--and tried to be as professional as I could. Of course, when it came down to it, all I wanted to say was, "I hate your music, I hate your groupies, and I hate you. Nothing personal." but I figured that that wouldn't be conducive to my interpersonal reputation. 

Before I'd gotten far, I nearly ran into a kid with shot-up brown hair and orange-red goggles. He had a leather jacket on, a fire-engine red shirt underneath, and silver bondage pants. 

_What_? 

"Hey," he said, stopping me with two fingers on my shoulder, "you that reporter-guy that's supposed to be hangin' out with us?" 

He seemed friendly enough, with an easy grin and relaxed posture, but then again--he seemed a little _too_ friendly. Drugs? 

I squinted at him. I hadn't gotten a good view of the band during the concert; truthfully, the whole thing had passed in a blur of screaming, screaming and...well, more screaming. Whether it had been from the stage or from the 'pit' remains to be ascertained. Nevertheless, I recognized the boyish man that had stopped me to be St. John "Pyro" Allerdyce, Antisthenes' bassist. 

"Yes," I said, reaching out and to shake his hand, "I'm Scott Summers." 

"Uh-huh," Pyro said, still grinning. He shook my hand quickly and vigorously, then pointed at me with both index fingers, "Quick, where was I born?" 

"Lawrence, Kansas?" I asked, startled. 

"Jesus, you reporter-types," Pyro laughed and slapped me on the arm. "C'mon back; we were beginning to think that the moshers had eaten you alive or somethin'." 

I'm a _journalist_, not _reporter_. "It was a little rough, but I think I'm okay." 

"Yeah? We keep telling Tabitha to quit throwing you guys in, but I think she gets a kick outta it or something." 

"Oh." Ms. Smith was, apparently, a sadistic _lunatic_. Hm. She'd get along with Pietro, now that I think about it. 

"Johnny!" I heard someone yell, and I looked over to see a short Asian girl dressed in a tight vinyl purple miniskirt and a glittery black halter-top. She had black-and-purple striped armwarmers to a few inches above her elbow, and she was holding a shiny, yellow raincoat. I recognized her as Jubilee, and I held out my hand again, hoping that nothing weird would happen. God, why did I have to meet new people? 

"Oh, hey, you must be...?" Jubilee ran one hand--bedecked with plastic, neon-colored rings--through her choppy, bedhead-style hair, and shook my hand at a relatively normal rate. 

"Scott Summers," I said. "I'm from the College Press Times?" 

"Oh, you're _pretty_," Jubilee grinned at me, and Johnny laughed, walking past her and bumping shoulders with her. 

'Pretty.' Was that the only way anyone described me? 

I tried to figure out the best way to approach this scenario. 

"Thanks," I said. "I'm gay." 

Jubilee grinned a little more and reached up to tweak my ear, "I figured." 

Now what was _that_ supposed to mean? 

"The concert was great," I said politely. 

"Ye-ah," Jubilee said. "You hated it, huh?" 

I coughed. "I...don't usually listen to this kind of music." 

"Uh-huh," Jubilee said. "Hey, you interviewing Lance?" 

"Yes," I said. "I'm supposed to." 

"Wow, your higher-ups've got some real connections." 

"Why do you say that?" I asked. 

Jubilee shrugged and leaned against the wall. "Most of the time, reporters," _Journalists_, "haveta interview us instead, since Lance is the lead and all." 

"Oh," I said. I guess Daddy Maximoff sponsored rock 'n' roll with _style_. "Would you mind if I asked you and the rest of the band some questions, too?" 

"Nah," Jubilee inspected a clump of hair, the tip of which was dyed peacock blue. "It's no big cookies." 

Whatever you say. "Alright then, thanks," I said. 

I hesitated, looking around. Jubilee and I were the only one in the alcove. "Um, could you...?" 

"Oh," Jubilee straightened a little and bounced on her toes. I glanced down--army boots. Cute. "Lance is probably somewhere back there. You can ask around." 

"Alright," I said again and forced a smile. "Thank you." 

"No prob, cutie," she said. "I'll see you on the bus." 

I smiled weakly at her, and as I walked past her, I could've sworn she goosed me. But...interpersonal reputation. Professionalism. _Journalism_. 

Fuck it, I just wanted out of here. 

I passed a few technicians and stagehands, and as I walked in the direction Jubilee had pointed me in, the lights grew dimmer. I vaguely recognized this section as the part I'd entered with Todd and Wanda, but it seemed a little less busier than before. For a brief minute, I was afraid that I'd gotten lost--especially since there was no one around to ask for directions. Then I saw a girl sitting on a few milk crates (why were there milk crates? Color me clueless). 

The girl--I identified her to be Rogue, Antisthenes' drummer--was dressed all in black with knee-high bitch boots, a black skirt that stopped just an inch above said boots, and a wrap-around top that had open shoulders and fishnet down the arms. She also had on a choker that had creepy-looking spikes on it and matching, dangly earrings that were nestled against her chin-length brown hair. On either side of her face were streaks of white, which I figured to be the result of either a punk fad or lots and lots of stress. 

"Excuse me," I began hesitantly. "I was looking fo--" 

The only way to describe the sound Rogue made was that it was a blood-thirsty, more-than-slightly-pissed-off growl. I think I wet myself. 

"Uh-h, never--never mind," I said, hastily continuing while making sure there was a lot of elbow space between her and me. 

_Jesus_. 

Before I had time to gather my wits, I was nearly tackled by Tabitha, who literally emerged from nowhere. 

I think I said, "Um." but I might've very possibly said, "Fuck!". No matter what I'd said, though, it had apparently amused Tabitha, who was giggling like a deranged basketcase. 

"Christ," she said. "You should've seen the look on your face!" 

Since she was the agent of a highly esteemed band, I guess she was allowed to do whatever she wanted. That didn't mean I had to be happy about it, though. 

"Anyway," Tabitha waved it off, "what'd you think of the concert?" 

"Uh," I said. "Loud. It was very...yes." I smiled weakly. 

"Yeah, I had you pegged as a Bach-and-Mozart boy myself," Tabitha grinned. "I bet you nearly puked out the wrong end!" 

Well, thanks. "No, I was fine, thank you," I said. 

She grabbed me by the elbow and started dragging me down one hall. How big _was_ this place, anyway? 

"Did you meet the band yet?" she asked. 

"Yes, I just met Ms. Lee, Mr. Allerdyce, and uh..." 

"Rogue?" Tabitha cackled. "Man, that chick's a headcase. Real talented, but I don't think I've ever heard her say one word." 

That's because she just _growls at everyone instead_. "Oh, really? She doesn't talk?" 

"Not at all," Tabitha said cheerfully. "Possibly once to say her name was 'Rogue.' And maybe to say 'Fuck off.' But that was a while ago." 

"Wow," I said. "How long ago?" 

"Maybe, I don't know, two, three years. For the whole time she's been with us. She's new." 

"Yes, I read about that," I said, glad to recognize some information. "Your original drummer was Remy LeBeau, wasn't it?" 

"That's right," Tabitha agreed. "He was a bluegrass-type of guy. Our rock wasn't doing it for him." 

"How'd he end up being part of Antisthenes to begin with then?" I wondered aloud. 

"Well," Tabitha said, "it's a long story. I'll tell you 'bout it sometime. Ask me on the bus?" She winked at me, and I cleared my throat. 

"Um, sure," I said. "Is he still friends with the band?" 

"Yeah, sure is," Tabitha nodded, turning the knob of a door and backing into it to open it. "Except for Rogue, of course." 

Jesus. That girl was scary as hell. "Why not Rogue?" 

"Oh, man," Tabitha gave me an incredulous look. "Rogue and Remy? Instant dislike. They _hated_ each other." 

Looks to me like Rogue hates _everyone_. "Oh, really? Because Rogue was his replacement?" 

"Nah, it wasn't as psychological as that," Tabitha shrugged. "They just didn't get along at all." 

"That's too bad," I said. I meant it, too. If I were Remy, I'd start wearing protection, just in case Rogue got her hands on something sharp and decided to castrate random people. Jesus. Protection was sounding pretty good right around now. 

We were now in a small pseudo-lobby with a loveseat, torch-lamp and a couch. A bald, middle-aged man was sitting in a wheelchair, staring with rapt attention at his laptop. 

"Hey, Chuck," Tabitha said, snapping her fingers a few times. 

The man looked up and glanced from Tabitha to me before smiling magnanimously, "Hello, Tabitha. This is...?" 

"Scott Summers," I said, shaking his hand. 

"Ah, Mr. Summers," the man nodded. "I'm Charles Xavier." 

I'd read about him; he was Antisthenes' financier. Interestingly enough, though, I'd never read that he was wheelchair-bound or how it came to be. I guess I was going to have to entertain myself by coming up with different scenarios. However, Mr. Xavier seemed the most normal out of everyone I'd met today so far. For that reason, I took an instant liking to him. 

"I'll go see if Lance is busy," Tabitha said and ruffled my hair. I shuddered inwardly. There's a reason I'm gay, you know. 

Mr. Xavier looked at me and smiled very pleasantly. 

"You're probably wondering why I'm in this wheelchair, aren't you?" 

O-kay, so he was straightforward. "Well, I wasn't going to as--" 

"You see," Mr. Xavier had a slightly disturbing smile on his face. Like Hannibal Lecter. "I lost the ability to use my legs in a very unfortunate accident." 

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I said. "That must be very dif--" 

"It involved fangirls," Mr. Xavier said, still smiling. I started sweating. Jesus, why was he _smiling_ like that? I felt like he was about to wield a pair of barbecue prongs and stab me repeatedly. Like steak. 

Maybe I should become a vegan. 

"Umm," I said, "fangirls?" 

"Yes," Mr. Xavier said. 

_Stop, smiling_, you creepy man! "I'm so sorry," I said, and I actually meant it. Antisthenes' fangirls were scary. Mostly because practically all of them are armed. 

"If I were you," Mr. Xavier said, now smiling even wider, "I'd watch my back." 

Excuse me? 

I stared at him. He smiled. _And didn't blink_. 

"Oh," I said, laughing nervously. "I..." 

"Hey, Summers," Tabitha grinned at me from the doorjamb of the adjoining room. 

"Uh, ye-yes?" I turned to face her. Christ, it was about time. 

She jerked her head a little in the direction of the room, "C'mon back!" 

"Alright," I said. Then, hesitantly, I faced Mr. Xavier again and held out my hand. _Please_ don't bite it off or something... 

"It was very nice meeting you," I said weakly. 

"You, too," Mr. Xavier said, smiling still. He shook my hand. "Have fun." 

"Yea--uh-h--hm--Mm-huh," I mumbled and quickly turned to follow Tabitha. 

_Jesus_. 

I must've looked very disturbed because Tabitha chuckled and asked, 

"Yeah, how 'bout Chuck, huh?" 

I smiled feebly, "He seems very--" 

"Kooky?" Tabitha giggled and straightened the lapel of her blouse. "Yeah, he got a little kerfed up in the Fangirl Incident a year or so back. Hasn't been the same since." 

'Kerfed?' Is that even a word? 

"Oh," I said. I wanted to ask her if he ever tried to cannibalize any bandmates, but I figured it wouldn't be an appropriate question. 

"Yep," Tabitha grinned and cupped her hands, yelling, "Lance! Where the hell didja go!?" 

Ow. I coughed and reached up to rub the back of my neck. It was only five or so in the evening and I already had a migraine. 

I heard someone grumble back, "What?" 

Yeah, _that_ sounded very friendly. 

Tabitha grinned and punched me lightly in the shoulder. How lady-like. 

"I'll see you later, Scoots," she said cheerfully. And left. Just like that! _Je_sus... 

"Uh," I cleared my throat and took a step forward. There were baggy clothes strewn all over the dressing room, and someone had written a phone number on the mirror with lipstick. 

"Mr. Alvers? I'm--I'm Scott Summers from the College Press Times. I'm here to...to..." 

I coughed uncomfortably. 

Lance Alvers was sitting on the counter of a sink that was right beside a mirror, his shoulders pushed back and his legs dangling. He had a pair of worn jeans on and no shirt. A woman's frilly black thong was floating in the sink, which was half-full of water. 

Wow. Thanks for sharing this important chapter of your life with me. 

"Um," I said. "I'm...Scott Summers. From the College Press Times?" 

Lance ran a hand through his hair--I noticed an ink-black tattoo wrapped around his upper arm. It looked Celtic. No--maybe it was...? 

"I'm--uh, I'm supposed to interview...you?" 

He wasn't even looking at me! That bastard. I was getting sort of annoyed. 

"Um, well..." I coughed and looked around. 

O-ka-y. 

"I guess," I coughed again, "I guess I'll see you at...seven? For the...the, uh...preliminary interview. I'll see you." 

Then, as I turned to go, I heard him say real slowly, 

"So--you're the possum, huh?" 

I faced him and he was quirking an eyebrow, eyes intent on something in his hand. 

"Uh--I--Excuse me?" I asked. 

"The possum. You know," Lance looked up, smirked at me, and fashioned a slingshot with his fingers and the rubber band he'd been playing with. He let go of the rubber band and it twanged, hit my shoulder, and fell to the ground. "Play dead?" 

"I, uh, I know what a possum does," I said. 

"Sure, sporto," Lance said, still smirking a little. He hopped off the counter, picked up a grungy-looking t-shirt, and yanked it on in a few brusque motions. "So what's your name again? Sooners?" 

"Summers," I said. "Scott Summers." 

"Sure," Lance said, rolling his eyes upward. "So you're going to be, what, stalking us?" 

Hello, welcome to the real world. I will be your guide to life. At the end of our lesson, you will feel the extreme need to slap me with a restraining order. Please do so. 

"Um, I will be accompanying you on--" 

"Yeah, okay," Lance said. 

"Um," I said again. 

"So how fuckin' old are you?" Lance asked, studying me. 

"Twenty-five," I said. 

"Twenty-five," Lance repeated slowly. He walked in a half-circle around me and I turned slightly so that we were still facing each other. "Twenty-fucking-five. Are you shitting me?" 

Well. At least he didn't ask if I was joking. "No, why?" 

Lance gave a short laugh. "Because you dress like my fucking grandpa." 

"What?" I asked, startled. 

"C'mon," Lance leaned against the wall, "a knit vest and fucking khaki slacks?" 

"It's business apparel," I said stiffly. I made a mental note not to pack any knit vests for the roadtrip and mentally smacked myself upside the head. 

"You look like you work in a funeral home," Lance said, "or somewhere equally as fuckin' cheerful." 

Why, thanks. I love hearing that my appearance gives the impression that I work with dead people all day long. "We all have to dream," I said wryly. Instantly, I regretted it, but Lance just smirked at me again. 

"Oh, so he actually jokes," Lance said. 

I smiled uneasily at him. 

"So," I began, "your grandfather--he worked at a funeral home?" 

"What, him?" Lance asked. "Nah. He sold corndogs outside the Jersey Stadium. Fuckin' turned into a blood splatter on his 96th birthday. See," he leaned a little closer, still smirking, "the fucking 'tard asked us to take him bungee jumping, and when we did, his cord fuckin' snapped." 

"O-oh," I said uncertainly. "I-I'm sorry." 

"Uh-huh," Lance said as if he didn't believe me. "So, what's your poison?" 

"What?" I asked, perplexed. 

"Well, naturally you must be fucked-up," Lance said. 

Oh, a pop psychologist at heart. This should be a fun 'roadtrip.' 

"Why's that?" I asked. 

"Because," Lance said, "you're probably from a high-end middle-class family in the Midwest, Protestant, mama's boy. I bet your mom made you wear briefs and corduroys, yeah?" 

He grinned at me. I did my best to show him that I was not amused. 

"No, actually," I said. "I'm not Protestant." 

Actually, I was. 

"Uh-huh," Lance said again. "Do you pop speed?" 

"What?" 

"Well, you work in a cubicle, right?" Lance was still grinning. "You can probably just make like you're takin' Advil and totally buzz." 

"I don't do drugs," I said, forcing an even tone. 

"Sure," Lance said. "You married with two kids and a picket fence?" 

"No," I said. "I'm single." 

"Sure," Lance said again. 

"Look," I said, making a big show out of glancing at my watch. "I should probably head back to the office. I still have to pack, too, so..." 

"Alright, check you later," Lance said. 

"Yes," I said, "We're meeting at Finnigan's, right?" 

"Sure, why not," Lance said. "I always sample fine liquor that tastes like ass on my first business dinner." 

Reluctantly, I held out my hand, "It was a pleasure to meet you." 

Definitive of what already seemed to be a downhill relationship, Lance just looked me in the eye and grinned, 

"Pleasure? You wish." 

_Asshole_.   


  


  


  


When I returned to the office, I was immediately taken into custody by Jean. Jean, who seemed way too amused, at that. 

"Scott!" she said brightly and, linking our arms, steered me toward the back room with expert speed. 

The back room was full of file cabinets that no one goes through anymore, and it was restricted, anyways, save for Jean, who conveniently had the key. To recap, that means that the back room is a restricted area that _only Jean has access to_. Oh, goodie; a place where I can scream, and no one will ever hear my pleas for help. 

"What is it?" I asked when Jean had finally locked us both in. She hopped on top of one squat file cabinet, crossed her feet at the ankles, and swung her legs. 

"So, how was it?" she grinned. 

Jesus, she sounded like she was asking me about sex. 

"It was alright," I said. Then, I added, "Lance Alvers is a sonuvabitch." 

Jean arched an eyebrow at me. "Oh, really? Was he cocky?" 

"Well..." I considered it. "I wouldn't describe it as _cocky_..." 

"Did he have a _grand_ opinion of himself?" 

"Not necessarily, he--" 

"An _eruptive_ temper?" 

"I don't thin--" 

"Did he," Jean leaned forward, "_invade_ your personal space?" 

I glared at her, and she tipped over sideways, laughing as hard as she could. 

"Jesus," I said, "are you drunk?" 

She righted herself and yawned a little, "Mmno. I had some Dayquil, though." 

Jean wasn't allowed to be sick ever again. When she was, she tended to overdo it with the medication. 

"Okay, listen," I said, "I have to get my stuff from my cubicle, and then I have to get back home and pack." 

"Pack?" Jean asked, alarmed. "Wait, why do you...?" 

"Because," I said sullenly, "_Mr. Maximoff_ failed to mention to me yesterday that I would be going on the road with Antisthenes." 

Jean's jaw dropped. "On the _road_?" 

"Yes," I said. "On the road. Isn't that--" 

"Scott!" Jean grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and jerked me forward. 

"What?!" I asked, startled. 

"Christ," she said. "You're so lucky!" 

"No, I'm--_what_? You mean you'd _want_ to go on the road with a _rock band_?" 

She rolled her eyes at me. "Only you, Scott. _Only_ you." 

"Only me what?" 

"Only _you_ wouldn't be able to appreciate every rock fan's dream come true!" Jean sat back again and crossed her legs daintily. "They give away roadtrips like this on the _radio_. People call in and have _aneurysms_ when they win." 

"Oh, believe me, I'm close to an aneurysm," I said wryly. 

"Oh, come _on_," Jean said. "You mean you didn't have fun at the concert?" 

I sputtered, "Concert? _Concert_? You know what's a concert?!" 

Jean rolled her eyes again. 

"James Brown," I said. "Ella Fitzgerald, people like that. Hell, _Train_!" 

"Oh, and what would you call the Antisthenes concert you went to?" Jean asked. 

"First of all," I said, "it was at 2 in the afternoon. Who the hell does that?" 

"There's a lounge party afterwards," Jean said slyly. 

"Oh, great," I said. "That makes all the difference." 

"Scott, you're missing the point," Jean huffed. 

"That's right," I said, "I totally want to get drunk with the band. Hell, party with the band, travel with the band, _why don't I join the band, too_?!" 

"Calm down, you look like you're going to pop a nad off," Jean said. 

I shook my head. 

"That _wasn't_ a concert," I said seriously. "That was a screaming, caterwauling deathpit of angst and anger and other--other _bad_ things!" 

"Wow," Jean said. "'Bad'? Really? I'm just making sure that's the word you were looking for." 

"Hey," I said, "if you think screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs is a musical form, then there's something wrong with your definition of music." 

Jean smirked at me. 

"It's not music," Jean said. "It's _sexy_." 

I must've looked very scandalized because Jean just grinned at me and patted me on the arm. 

"It's not--" I began and Jean rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time. 

"Oh, c'mon, Scott. Anyways, they don't scream. Not _every_ word." 

"It's _loud_," I said, sulking. 

"Well, you _were_ in the," here Jean coughed, hiding a giggle, "mosh pit." 

I glared even harder and hoped that she felt at least a little threatened. Apparently, she didn't, though, because she just giggled even louder. 

"Antisthenes just isn't music," I decided. 

Jean made an indignant sound, "You've got to be joking." 

"I'm not," I insisted. "I think they're just--just _noise_." 

Jean stared at me, then asked mildly, "What'd they do to you?" 

"They're _freaks_!" I exclaimed. "Their agent felt up my hair, their financier possibly stores the elbows of past clients in his economy-sized freezer for a midnight snack, their drummer doesn't _talk_, and--and--" 

"What about Lance?" Jean asked, undaunted by my tirade. 

"He said I was a-a _high-end middle class, Protestant, mama's boy!_" 

Jean was silent. 

"_And_," I continued, too angry to enunciate clearly, "he said things wi-with lewd connotations." 

Jean cleared her throat. I glowered at her. 

"Well," she said slowly, "you _are_ from a middle class Protestant family..." 

"Shut up," I muttered. 

"And you _are_ a mama's boy..." 

"Shu-ut up," I grumbled. 

"And you _are_ really pretty..." 

"Jean," I said, "do you _want_ to be a chalk outline on the ground?" 

She paused. "Is it stylish chalk?" 

"It's vomit green," I said. 

"Orange?" Jean suggested. 

"Vomit orange," I said. 

"You're very silly," Jean said. 

"Bang," I said, and she made a face at me. 

I sighed and hoisted myself up beside her. She patted me on the knee and clucked her tongue. 

"Poor Scoot," she said in the most sugary voice I've ever heard. 

"In a word," I said sadly, "the American society is completely enamored with the debilitating institution that is rock 'n' roll music, no longer regarding its masochistic, drug-sponsoring musicians as mere entertainers, but as deities of a hedonistic religion that should've ceased to exist in the Roman era." 

"Hmm," Jean said thoughtfully. "Have you been practicing that?" 

"I had lots of time to think about it," I said, "on the way back from _hell_." 

Jean grinned, "You're just annoyed because Lance really _is_ hot." 

"Shut up," I said. 

  


  


  


  


I arrived at Finnigan's at around 6:40 or so. What can I say--I like to be prompt. I also needed time to practice my poker face, because I had the ominous feeling that Lance and I were not going to get along. At all. 

Not for lack of trying on my part, of course; I was going to extend him all the professional courtesy I could muster, dammit, even if it killed me. 

I glanced around, wondering if I ought to just sit down anywhere. Fortunately, I saw Tabitha, who was waving frantically at me, already in a booth. Or would that be 'unfortunately'? Hmm. I wonder if I ought to pretend I didn't see her. 

"Hello," I said, shaking her hand. She grinned at me and held onto my hand afterwards. Like a barnacle. 

"Why, Mr. Summers, you've got a jacket," Tabitha said, grinning. 

"Um," I said. I tried not to project my resentment toward her for pushing me to my doom at the hands of the molesting, deranged fanbase of her motley band. It was because of her that I was now wearing my backup jacket. My back-up jacket that doesn't look like Humphrey Bogart's jacket, might I add. "It's a little chilly out." 

"I guess so," Tabitha said cheerfully. I hesitantly sat down opposite her. 

"Lance'll probably be late," Tabitha said. "The band's finishing up this radio contest thing at the party, so..." 

"Oh, that's alright," I said. Bastards. 

"I'm just here to booze up," she added brightly. 

I laughed nervously and carefully pried my fingers from hers. 

"So, tell me," Tabitha smirked, throwing back a cold on, "are you _single_, you delectable piece of man?" 

_Jesus_. 

"I'm, uh, thirsty," I said nervously and stood up quickly. "I should--um--get a drink." 

"You want a sip of mine?" Tabitha purred and did strange things with the bottleneck and her tongue that reminded me of anteaters and corndogs. I think I turned three different shades of green. 

"I'll be right back," I mumbled. 

I managed to find an empty corner of the bar--Finnigan's was suspiciously sparse tonight, probably in anticipation of Lance's arrival--and I huddled in my jacket until the bartender finally noticed me. She was a young-looking lady with brown hair up in a bouncy ponytail and the most bored expression I'd ever seen on her face. 

"What can I do y'for?" she asked me. I shuddered and thought of Tabitha. 

"Do you," here, I cleared my throat, "do you, uh, have any nonalcoholic beverages?" 

She stared at me. 

"Um, right then. Could I have water, please?" 

"Sure," she said, reaching over, filling up a tall soda glass, and sliding it over to me. 

"Thanks," I muttered and was promptly ignored. Jesus, what great service. 

I took my time drinking my water and studiously examined the graffiti and carvings in the dark wood of the counter. Oh, how nice: 'Do you mind if I have my baby here?' What's that supposed to mea--oh. 

I moved down a few stools. 

I had about forty-five minutes to stew and fume before Lance Alvers actually showed up. I was ready to strangle him, to tell you the truth, but you just don't try to cause bodily harm to international rock stars. Just like you don't set bear traps for demonic, chauvinistic, ass-baring bosses. They were about the same in level of frustration, really. 

"Summers Scott," he said, straddling the stool next to me. 

"Mr. Alvers," I said, straightening and holding out my hand. He ignored it and waved down the bartender. 

She gaped at him for a moment, her bored expression frozen in shock. Then, she began with difficulty, 

"H-hey, are--that is, aren't you--?" 

"Nope," Lance said easily. "Uncanny resemblance is all. What's on the house tonight?--never mind, just get me a fuckin' screwdriver, hey?" 

"Um," she said, eyed him strangely, and headed over to mix his drink in confusion. 

"Wow," I said, "do people recognize you often?" 

"Is this on the record or off?" Lance asked. 

"Um," I said, "off." 

"Sure," Lance said, then: "Fuck, do they have good food here? I'm fuckin' starving." 

"They have good steak, I hear," I said. "I don't usually come here." 

"Hm," Lance said. He poured some peanuts into the palm of his hand from a bowl that was on the counter, then lined them up and flicked them one by one with his forefinger at a napkin dispenser. 

"Did you see Tabitha?" he asked then. 

"Yes, she--uh..." I turned around to point her out, but the booth she had been in was empty. I blinked. "Well, she was right--" 

Lance jerked his head a little so that his longish bangs were swept to the side with the motion. They had been in his eyes, because he was a dumbass. Get a haircut, would you? 

"Oh, she's probably off humpin' a newspaper stand or somethin'," he said. 

The sad thing is that he was probably right. 

"So," Lance turned to face me, "you probably have a whole fuckin' slew of half-assed questions to ask me, yeah?" 

Ouch. I was feeling some serious journalist-hating. 

"Well, I have a few basic, preliminary questions tha--" 

"You didn't wanna ask me boring shit like where I was born, did you?" 

"Uh--I was planning to just so I'd hear it firsthand, you know, instead of readin--" 

"Hey," Lance said, cutting me off, "I got an idea." 

"I--Wha-what?" I asked. I was starting to get annoyed. 

"Why don't you ask me a fuckin' question, then I'll ask _you_ one?" Lance said. He seemed very bored, yet very amused all at the same time. Jackass. 

"That's--that sounds very unorthodox, but--" I started, and Lance interrupted me again, smirking; 

"So, what, you're too much of a fuckin' prude to try it?" 

How does not wanting to make an ass out of myself make me a prude? 

"I'd just rather not--" 

"Hell, you're lots of fun," Lance said with what I suspect was sarcasm. _Jackass_

"Could we just--?" 

"Hey," Lance said again, "it's a no go without something that's at least fuckin' entertaining, y'dig?" 

"But, I--" 

"Or," he was still smirking at me, "are you too fuckin' chicken-shit to do it?" 

Now, I've never been called chicken-shit before, and if you haven't been either, I can assure you that it is a very upsetting experience. Especially if you're not _just_ 'chicken-shit,' but you're '_fuckin'_ chicken-shit.' 

"Fine," I said stiffly. 

"Bitchin'," Lance said very matter-of-factly. "I guess we get a one-for-one, then." 

He'd gotten his drink now and so stood up, the glass in his hand. 

"Would you like to get a table?" I asked. 

"Sure," Lance said, took a gulp of his screwdriver, and added, "Let's get a high-quality one to compensate for this ass-piss drink." 

Isn't 'compensate' too big a word for a guy of your caliber, Mr. Alvers? 

"How about that one?" I pointed to a booth just a little farther back than the one Tabitha had been sitting in. Without replying, Lance strolled over to the table as I fumbled with my stool, pushing it and Lance's in under the counter. I grabbed my glass of water and hastily followed him. How delightful--though I suppose I could take comfort in that he wasn't talking anymore. 

I sat down quickly opposite of him in the small booth and drummed my fingers--I don't want to say _anxiously_--idly. 

"Hm," Lance said, looking around the booth with a critical eye. "Crap." 

He promptly made himself at home, propping his legs up on the table and crossing them at the ankles. I coughed and asked politely, 

"How was the lounge party?" 

"I left early," Lance said nonchalantly, "but it fuckin' sucked anyway." 

"Oh," I said. "I'm sorry." 

"Sure," Lance said, withdrew a pack of cigarettes, and asked, "D'ya mind if I smoke?" 

Before I could answer, he had already lit one up. 

Of course I mind, you asshole. If I _wanted_ to _ruin_ my lungs and turn them into two sacks of blackened oatmeal-like tissue, I'd take up smoking myself so that I'd at least get a nicotine rush while I was slowly developing lung cancer and contributing to air pollution and global warming, which, in case you didn't know, is going to one day _kill us all by baking us into Keebler crispies_! 

"No, I don't mind," I replied. 

Lance blew a stream of smoke at his drink and remarked in an even, flat, slightly curious voice, "If the alcohol absorbs the smoke, and the smoke doesn't taste like ass, would the alcohol taste less like ass, more like ass, or would it just taste like smoky, barbecued ass?" 

I blinked. 

"I think it'd taste...more," I offered mildly. 

"A sum of parts," Lance said. "So you could say that," he gestured toward his drink, "that's the left cheek and," he brought his cigarette up an inch from his nose, inhaling slowly, "this is...the right." 

He dropped his cigarette into his screwdriver. I stared at him. 

"Steak, you said?" Lance leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach, as if he hadn't noticed my perplexity. 

"I'm not too hungry, actually," he mused aloud. 

"I thought you were starving?" I said, baffled. Jesus, was this guy stoned? 

"How long have you been here?" he asked instead of answering my question. 

I glanced at my watch and estimated, "Forty minutes or so." 

"Huh," he said. "What fuckin' questions do you have?" 

"Um," I said and retrieved the small notepad I had tucked into my jacked pocket. "Well, why don't you start by telling me about yourself?" 

Lance arched an eyebrow at me silently, then tilted his chin up and peered at the ceiling. 

"Hm. You know all the shit about my mother's maiden name and all that, yeah?" 

"Yes," I said, "but I--" 

"So, you wanna know about my childhood," Lance guessed. 

"Well, yes," I said. 

"I was from a rich family," Lance said, his eyes not leaving the ceiling. It almost seemed as if he were falling asleep. "And we had two dogs and a fuckin' pony, or somethin' like that. One of my uncles--it's always a goddamned uncle--fuckin' gambled all the time. He was like some crackhouse whore who'd screw for bongs, you dig? 

"Fuckin' borrowed money from my old man," here, he sat up straight and selected a packet of Sweet 'n Low, ripping it open without missing a beat, "and didn't repay one lousy penny. He's a fuckin' shithead from the suburbs with no sense of consequence. 

My _fa_ther," so far, Lance had emptied eight packs of sweetener into a neat little pile on the table and he was starting on the ninth one, "practiced Protestantism until he fuckin' puked up scripture, so, naturally, he crashed into a telephone pole on a Sunday, fuckin' totaled his car, snapped his neck, and drowned in a puddle of his own fuckin' drool, blood, and snot on the dashboard." 

He paused and looked at me. I gawked at him. Now I know why no one printed _his_ story either. 

"My mother," he said calmly, "swallowed a bottle of codeine, half a bottle of aspirin, and drank an assload of Nyquil before passing out while she was ironing clothes. She fuckin' started a fire, you know--fucked up the whole second floor," he returned studiously to piling sugar, "so _she_ kicked the fuckin' bucket, too. 

They sent me to my fuckin' Aunt Mauve, who's about as dull as her middle name--it's Mary--_and_ she lives in this fuckin' trailer park. See, I was, I don't know, six at the time all this shit happened, and," Lance ran out of sweetener and started on the salt packets, 

"that's was where my life started goin' downhill. I went to this little inner city school, right? Right in this city that was, what, ten fuckin' miles from the trailer park. So I'd walk there, hey? Got mugged every other fuckin' day by these _dick_heads. But, y'know, I don't really give a damn about that school, I think..." he lifted one arm above his head, packet in hand, and watched the stream of trickling salt rain onto the growing pile, "that...it was..." 

He grinned at me, dropped the packet, and finished, crossing his arms across his chest, "Just a fuckin' learning experience." 

"A--" I repeated. 

"Fuck-in' learn-in' _experience_," Lance repeated slowly, enunciating each syllable almost painfully harsh. 

I coughed. "How, um, how was Antisthenes...?" 

"Oh, hey," Lance grabbed a pepper shaker and started emptying it in the pile, "we just got together. Johnny was in my tenth-grade History class, right? We'd ditch and get high or whatever." 

I _knew_ that guy was a druggie! 

"Were you--under the, uh, influence a lot?" I wondered, trying to keep my voice neutral. 

"Fuckin' shitload of the time," Lance drawled. "You gonna let me finish my story, _Mr._ Summers?" 

"Um, sorry," I said, and motioned for him to continue. 

"Anyways," Lance sighed, as if it were terribly tragic that he had to speak to me, "Jubilee was this hip art chick that I caught drawing obscene pictures in the classrooms of this juvie place we both got sent to, and Remy--you read about Remy, hey?--Remy was this chick's on-and-off boyfriend. They were fuckbuddies or whatever. She did him to get back at her parents, and he did her...hell, I don't even know. They were friends, though," Lance added thoughtfully. He grinned; 

"Friends...with privileges." 

"Oh," I said. "And Rogue...?" 

"Johnny found her; she was kicking the shit out of this puny li'l ninth grader or somethin' at the local library--I think the kid tried to start a conversation with her--and he managed to drag her off-a him, saw her drumsticks stickin' out from her fuck-me boots, and--" 

Lance blew at the accumulated pile and it swirled apart into a mass of white and black. He sat back and shrugged, 

"I guess the rest is history." 

"Huh," I said, quickly finishing up my note taking, "while we're on the subject of Rogue, what would you say is the difference between her drumming and Mr. LeBeau's?" 

The plan was to have Kurt translate it for me later on. 

"Rogue's a fuckin' powerhouse," Lance said. "She'll drum away like anything that fuckin' gets between her sticks and the skins is gonna get fuckin' pulped like..." he searched for the proper analogy, "Dannon's yogurt." 

"Creative," I said, and I must've sounded sarcastic because Lance grinned at me, swung his legs down--deliberately jostling the table so that my pencil involuntarily streaked across the notepad--and said in a low voice, 

"Between you and me, Summers...I bet she's a fuckin' animal in bed." 

I coughed uncomfortably, "Wha-what?" 

"All that fuckin' drumming--you're all sweaty, right? You're beating the shit out of this huge set of drums, and you're goin' up and down and up again, and then you _fuckin'_ really whale on 'em--you fuckin' _beat_ them like there's fuckin' no tomorrow--" 

He leaned forward and leveled this _look_ at me. 

"Y'dig? It's like fucking, only rowdier and louder and fuckin' _violent_--violent like _real_ fucking. The only thing that's sexier is..." 

He drifted off, not finishing his sentence, but still looking at me like I don't even _know_ what. 

"The only thing sexier is..." 

I swallowed hard and asked weakly, "W-what?" 

"Well," Lance smiled mockingly at me, "Reporters." 

I stared at him, and for some reason, the only thing I could think for the longest time was: 

It's _journalist_, dammit! 

  


  


  


  


  


~tbc~ 


	3. Open Document

Title: Readme.txt 

Part: 3/? 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: PG-13 

Pairings: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance; Weasel/Forge, Forge/Weasel 

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. 

Spoilers: Nada. 

Warnings: Pre-slash (m/m relationship), AU (which means **Alternate Universe**, for those who don't know.) 

  


  


Notes: Yay! More Lance/Scott. I'm posting this uberearly because I'm going to be out of town from Wednesday to very late on Saturday. I shall be going to the wonderfluous city of Chicago! Badda-bing, baby. 

Anyways, so here is more "Readme.txt" for your reading (haha, now doesn't that sound weird?) pleasure. 

  


  


Additional Notes: Thank you _sososososo_ much to my faithful reviewers and supporters, in no particular order: Morwen O'Conner, Olhado, N, Lyo, Sheena, Flick, Agar, sugar.coated, Pyromaniac, Mercuria, Katreon of Team Socket, ShadowCreature, MiracleChick, Imhotep Ardeth Bey, Laureate, Ishida Kat, Omega Orange, Vertigo Mesmerizer, Edainme, and last but not least, Absolute Alcohol. 

  


  


**SPECIAL NEWS BULLETIN**: The **Blind Fish Archive** is officially accepting submissions! Please check it out and feel free to submit your fanfiction! The URL is geeky-pirate.net then a backslash and the word 'blindfish.' Sorry if that's confusing--FF.net keeps eating the chapter when I upload it with the URL O.o So...yes. :D I will have a powwow with the ever-lovely _Morwen O'Conner_ and figure out how to give y'all the URL!   


  


Enjoy and Review!!!...please? 

  


  


  


  


-- 

  
  


"Hey, hey, hey, it's Summers!" Johnny was, once again, the first person to greet me. He slung an arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the tour bus, which they were apparently in the process of loading. Out of a sense of paranoia, I strained to see if they had already loaded my luggage, which I had dropped off earlier. 

"Um, Mr. Allerdyce," I said, holding out my hand. 

"Aw, shaddup," he waved it off. "Just call me Johnny, hey?" 

"If you want," I said dubiously. I could hear my professionalism whimpering for a quick death. 

"So, how'd preliminary interviews go with Lancers?" Johnny asked. He was disturbingly chipper. 

"It went...well," I said. Actually, if I resented Lance before, I _hated_ him now. 

"Right," Johnny said skeptically. "When you say 'well,' do you actually mean 'I think I hate all you scumbags,' now?" 

"Maybe," I said, smiling a little. "That is--" 

"Hey, we're not like that guy, dig?" Johnny said, grinning. Idly, I wondered if 'you dig' was something that, by law, all band members had to say. 

"Um," I said. 

"I mean," Johnny said, "Me and Lancers are real close, but he's surlier than fuck. I don't think anyone's as pissy about interviews as he is. Well..." he grinned. "Maybe _Rogue_ is." 

I coughed. "Do they...dislike journalists or something?" 

"Hey, we're all a little resentful, off the record, Scottyboy," Johnny said with a confidential smile. "I mean, tons of guys come through and...well, hell. Would _you_ trust somebody for asking so many goddamned questions?" 

"I...guess not?" I said. 

"Well," Johnny jostled me a little and gave me a playful shove toward the passenger seat, "you ride shotgun, huh?" He grinned at me. 

"Sure," I said. 

He saluted at me and then practically raced to the back of the bus. I heard him yell, "Heyyy, Jubes!" and shook my head, turning to face the bus door again. I opened the door and was greeted by the amiable smile of the man whom I assumed was the driver of the tour bus. 

"Hello, I'm Scott Summers," I said, shook his hand, and gestured toward the passenger seat. "Mind if I...?" 

"Oh, hey, go ahead," the man said, smiling genially enough. "I'm Forge." 

Forge had a slightly tan complexion with black hair that was kind of scraggly, tamed by the brown baseball cap he was wearing backwards. He was wearing street clothes; a green-gray t-shirt and jeans. He seemed nice and normal, which made me eye him with unduly paranoid suspicion. We all remember what happened the last time I thought someone was normal, right? 

"So, you're from what newspaper again?" Forge asked, tuning the radio. 

"The College Press Times," I said. "And no, the name doesn't make much sense, does it?" 

Forge laughed, "No, it doesn't. I've heard of it, though--the CPT?" 

"Right," I said, almost relieved. "You know, you're the first person who's recognized it." 

"It's no Times," he said, "not really renown and all that. But I personally think it could be, hey?" 

Not with Pietro at the helm. Christ, his ego would bloat so much he'd actually explode. ...Hm. "Thanks. We try our best." 

"Are you a fan of rock music?" Forge gave up trying to find a decent radio station and sat back, drumming his hands on the steering wheel. 

"Not really," I admitted. "I listen mostly to jazz--swing, stuff like that." 

"Oh, hey, me, too," Forge said, brightening. "Well, not swing, but I've got this thing about Weather Report. They're really amazing." 

"They are," I agreed. 

"I listen to some rock, though," Forge mused. "I like the Vines, the Strokes, the White Stripes...Wow, those are all 'the' bands, aren't they?" 

I grinned sheepishly. "Seems like it. I haven't heard of any of them." 

"You haven't heard of _the Strokes_?" Forge did a small bounce forward in his seat then leaned back again, "That's im_possible_." 

"I'm assuming that they're pretty big, then?" I asked wryly. 

"Yeah, definitely," Forge smiled. "I'll have to let you hear them sometime. We've got, what, eight hours, anyways, and I got a whole case of CDs." 

"Eight hours," I repeated with distaste. 

"Yeah, you might want to go back and talk with the band," Forge said, grinning. "You know, keep things interesting." 

"And what do you do?" I asked nervously. 

Please don't say you're going to go far, far away after this car ride, Mr. Normal Person. 

"I'm the technician slash designated driver," Forge said with a laugh. "You can't get more behind-the-scene than that, I guess." 

I grinned. Oh, you are heaven-sent, Mr. Forge. "Think I can ask you some production questions later on?" 

"Oh, sure," Forge agreed. "I'd be glad to answer anything you got." 

"How long have you been with Antisthenes?" I asked. 

"Mm, I'd say six, seven years or so," Forge said. 

"Wow," I said, "so from the very beginning?" 

"Yep. I took shop with, uh, Johnny A. back there," Forge said easily. 

"Oh," I said, making a note of that on my notepad. Lucky you. "Did you know Mr. Alvers back then, too?" 

"Lance?" Forge gave me a baffled look. "We d--" 

"Hey, boy scouts!" Jubilee nudged the door in the partition open and stuck her head in, grinning at both of us. "We're all loaded up." 

"Up the _back_!" I heard Johnny add loudly, cackling. 

Drugs. 

"You all ready?" Forge asked. 

"Defi-nootly," Jubilee reached over, yanked on the brim of his cap, and grinned. Forge gently caught her wrist and glanced at one of the many watches on her arm. 

"8:27. Thanks for the time," he added. 

"Hey, when're we gonna get there?" Jubilee uncapped a tube of lipstick, twisted it, and drew a smiley face on the rearview mirror. It was green. 

"Oh, about two or so in the morning," Forge estimated. 

"Eight fuckin' hours," she sighed. 

"Traveling takes time," Forge reminded her. 

"Hell," Jubilee grinned, "I know. But can't we get a fuckin' jet or something? That'd be _cool_." 

"I don't know how to fly jets," Forge observed mildly. 

Jubilee laughed. "I betcha you could learn," then she addressed me; "Hey, Summers, wanna come back and hang out?" 

"Um," I said. 

"Sure you do," Jubilee said with delight, grabbed my arm, and hauled me through the door. 

"See you later!" I heard Forge say before the door swung close. 

Yeah, hopefully. I wonder if he would hear my screams for help...? 

The bus looked more like a living room once I passed through the door. A gaudy, nausea-inducing, obscenely colorful living room. In my opinion, it looked like a scene out of a commercial for Trix. It was also decorated with 'modern' furniture, which meant that I could barely distinguish between the chairs and tables. 

Fabulous. 

"Welcome to home sweet home on the road," Jubilee sing-songed, then added cheerfully, "Baby, if you take any pictures, I'll have to shoot ya." 

Don't have a camera; would break it if I did. 

Johnny was flung over a lime-green sofa and was picking an old Beatles song on an acoustic guitar. 

"Hey, Jude," he said, grinning and not even bothering to sing, "don't make it bad; take a sad song and make it better...!" 

Frightening. It was like trying to rap the Beatles. 

"He doesn't ordinarily sing like that, does he?" I asked Jubilee quietly. 

"Dear God, we'd fuckin' throw him out the bus if he did," Jubilee grinned. 

"While we're going at eighty-five miles per hour," Lance added. I started. 

Jesus, I hadn't even noticed him. He was sitting sideways in what I assumed to be an armchair, his legs sprawled over the back and armrest. 

He... 

Okay, I have nothing. I hate him so much I can't even think of an insult. 

"Mr. Alvers," I said. I held out my hand, but Jubilee confiscated it for her own purposes. Lance quirked an eyebrow at me. 

"And how are you this fine evening?" he drawled. 

"I--fine, thank you," I said. "You?" 

"Contemplating suicide," he flashed me a smile and Johnny chortled; 

"Can I have your fangirls if you croak?" 

"Only if you give a fuckin' decent eulogy, man," Lance replied. 

"Oh," Johnny snickered, "want me t'lie through my teeth, yeah?" 

"The only eulogies worth hearin'," Lance smirked. 

Johnny whooped and let his guitar clatter to the floor. He jumped up onto the couch and stood, limbs akimbo as if he were surfing, and yelled at the top of his lungs, 

"And then he water-skied over those fuckin' sharks like he was _Fonzi_ or what'sit, man! And he fuckin' saved my goddamned life--I was about to be sacrificed to some fuckin' tiki god the shape of a lamp over this big ol' volcano--" 

"Oh, I get it," Jubilee laughed. "'cause you're a virgin, huh?" 

"Hey," Johnny leapt down from the sofa and swung around something that was either a lamp or a sculpture or both. "That ain't funny, sweetheart." 

"I'm laughin'," Lance snickered. 

"With incredulity!" Johnny cried, raising one arm and jumping to touch the ceiling. "Laughing with _fuckin'_ incredulity, my friend!" 

"I don't think so," Jubilee mused. 

"Who asked you, China doll?" Johnny reached over and grabbed her hand, twirling her around and then dipping her down. 

"Oh, Johnny," Jubilee faked a swoon. "Bless yer heart!" 

They started waltzing at a fast tempo, and as they passed me, Jubilee winked at me and blew a kiss. It positively sent shivers down my spine. 

Jesus, was it too late to go sit up front again? 

I glanced around. 

"Um, so, uh, where's...where's Ms. Rogue?" I asked. 

"She's somewhere in the back," Lance waved his hand, "doing...I dunno. Fucking." 

Oh. Great. I had a feeling that I was going to get 'She's in the back.' for an answer very consistently every time I asked about Rogue. 

Now, the question is, _what_ is she doing in the back? Probably hiding the remains of Mr. Xavier's mid-day snack: Italian. Maybe some Texans, Ohioans...Washington D.C.-based barbecue... 

"Um, so," I was still standing, and Lance was ignoring me again. _Jackass_. "S-so, what's the album called? The one that you're working on now, I mean." 

"_Halfway Second_," Lance said without looking at me. He had picked up Johnny's acoustic guitar and was now strumming at it very lightly. "An introspective look on why alcoholic nannies like to hang pets out of third-story nursery windows." 

"A--what?" I asked, staring at him. Was he just perpetually drunk or something? 

"Shakespeare," Lance glanced up at me and jerked his hand across his guitar, the resulting jarring chord making me wince. 

At this point, I think Jean would've mentioned an issue with compensation of the most obscene sort. 

"Shakespeare?" I repeated. I was beyond confused, and for some reason, that reminded me of their band name. 

"Um, Antisthenes--" 

"Want a roll call?" Lance asked. 

"Um, no," I coughed. "I just--It's an interesting name. How'd you...?" 

"Oh, that," Lance swung his legs down so that he was sitting with them apart with the guitar across them. He plucked at each string as hard as he could. "Antisthenes was the name of the local bar where my older sister used to go before she got knocked up and drowned her boyfriend by beating him on the head with a brick and leaving him in a ditch full of mud-water." 

I stared at him. 

"He's full of shit," Jubilee informed me, then, with a fond smile. She ruffled Lance's hair, and he flicked her off. 

"What?" I asked. 

They were all _insane_. 

"Actually," Lance said easily with no trace of regret at all, "Antisthenes is the name of Johnny's favorite comic book series." 

I looked over at Johnny, and he pumped a fist in the air; "_Antisthenes_, by the infamous and ingenious M.J. Plachy, baby!" 

Okay, forget I mentioned Cynicism. 

"We suspect that he whacks off to it," Lance said wryly. 

"I don't," Johnny protested. "I--" 

"Okay, Kinks for Brains," Jubilee interrupted, "how about you save the gory details for later in this relationship? We don't wanna scare off the cutiepie without giving him a dinner and a movie first." 

"Well, I just need a movie," I said mildly. "Since I've already eaten and all." 

"What'd you have?" Lance smirked. 

I looked over at him and without meaning to, I just stared at him and said, "Steak." 

Lance paused and slowly arched an eyebrow at me. Without breaking eye contact, he drawled in a low voice, 

"Oh, really?" 

_JesusJesusJesus_. 

"Well, with a little sprig of, you know, tha-that green, um, green...thing, with, a, uh, small salad on the side?" I answered in a rush. 

Jubilee, who had apparently been watching the whole exchange with amusement, commented brightly, 

"I believe that sprig of green you were talking about is called _lube_." 

And you know what? _That didn't even make sense_. 

But you know what? _I didn't even notice_. 

And you know why? 

Because the whole time, Lance didn't even look away from me once. 

_Jesus_. 

  


  


  


  


I was tempted to call Jean around ten o'clock, but I figured that there was little to no privacy on the bus. Except for in the back. And Rogue was in the back. 

No, I really don't think so. 

So far, here had been no sign of activity from either Tabitha or Xavier. My theory was that Xavier had actually sautéed and _eaten_ Tabitha, who then gave him a gastrointestinal affliction out of spite. Johnny's theory was much messier: 

"I think they're boffin'," he said cheerily. 

"'Boffing'?" I asked. Did I even _want_ to know? 

"Boinking," Jubilee supplied, "Shagging, shtupping, bandicooting, banging, doinking, basket-making, boning, corking." 

I stared at her. 

"O...h," I said. 

"Fuck-ing," Lance added loudly, enunciating very clearly the two syllables. 

Oh. 

_Oh_. 

"That's--" I sputtered and was intelligently at a loss for words. 

Lance smirked. 

Bastard. 

"I think I left something up front," I muttered. 

"Do you know what _I_ think?" Jubilee giggled. "_I_ think that you and Johnny should _get it on_ and let us watch." 

I blanched and Johnny yelped, 

"C'mon, Jubes! Like I'd do something like _that_." 

Jubilee quirked an eyebrow at him. 

"Without a small fee," Johnny added with a mischievous smile. 

_What_? 

"Mmsay...five hundred bucks?" Jubilee tried. Lance snorted and looked at Johnny. 

"Six hundred," Johnny said with a imperial glance about the room. He ruined it by snickering to himself. 

"Five twenty-five," Jubilee put her hands on her hips. 

"Five fifty, and that's my final offer!" Johnny declared. "And only 'cause he's so cute." 

"I think I hear Forge calling me," I said weakly. 

"Sold!" Jubilee crowed, ignoring me. "But I need a deposit of an assgrab, first!" 

Lance snickered and Johnny made a beeline toward me. I broke out in a cold sweat. 

"Uh, I really don't feel comfortable--" 

"Just sit pretty and I'll cut you a part of the cash, dig, Scottyboy?" Johnny purred. 

"Umm," I panicked, "be right back." 

I fled through the door, judiciously ignoring the catcalls following me. When I slammed the door shut, Forge glanced up at me in the rearview mirror, surprised, then grinned, 

"Hey again." 

"Hi," I said nervously. "Is there any way to lock that door?" 

Forge laughed, "Why'd you want to do that?" 

I glared at him. "Because they're _after_ me." 

"Don't worry, they don't bite," Forge replied. 

Wanna bet? 

I slumped in the passenger seat and sulked. 

"Don't you have to interview them, anyway?" Forge asked, grinning at little at my expense. 

"Yes, of course," I said. I coughed and tried to regain some sense of professionalism. "I'm sure they're fine artists." 

There was a loud thump, and I looked back. Now, the partition has a strip of glass at the top so that Forge can see through to the back of the bus. And currently, on the strip of glass, was a hand. 

Mr. Xavier, I think you dropped your lunch. 

"Never let go, Jack!" I heard Johnny mock-sob, "Just never let go!" 

I stared. Forge chuckled to himself; 

"They're a riot, aren't they?" 

"They scare me," I mumbled. 

"Jubilee's usually much calmer," Forge remarked. "I think she must've had some Jolt or something. It's the only time she acts like this." 

Or she's always this insane and she just keeps it a secret as to lull you into a false sense of security. Don't believe it, Forge! _Don't_! 

"So have you ever been to Cleveland before?" Forge asked pleasantly. 

"No, actually," I said. "Is it nice?" 

"Hmm, well, I suppose it depends on your definition of 'nice,'" Forge said. "It's very...urban." 

I grinned. 'Urban' said absolutely nothing about the city, which was probably why Forge picked it. He reminded me of Jean on her sleepy days; the days when she couldn't find the energy to poke fun at me in every single way possible. 

"I'm not sure what my angle is," I confessed after a moment of silence. Stupid, Scott. Very, very stupid. Telling the band's techie? 

"I thought you were going to just write a feature; an article about the band?" Forge asked. 

"Well, yes, but you've got to have a certain slant to the topic," I said very importantly. 

"Hmm," Forge said. "Well, I don't know much about journalism, but I'd guess the focus of an article like the one you're writing would be to get 'the inside story.'" 

"That's a start," I agreed. 

"Well, you have, what--two weeks?" Forge smiled reassuringly at me. "I'm sure you'll figure something out by then." 

Forge reminded me of my mother--a thought that I felt would probably be best left unsaid--and it was a little creepy. However, Forge's motherly creepiness was undisputedly canceled out by how _normal_ he seemed in relation with everyone else I had met so far. 

"How would you describe Antisthenes' music?" I asked curiously. 'Music.' 

"Well," Forge drummed his fingers, distracted momentarily by checking his blind spot, "I'm not sure. They're no Dashboard Confessional," he added with a smile. 

Dashboard what? 

"What's...?" I asked. 

"Oh, it's this band that's all, I don't know...weepy, I guess," Forge pondered, then amended, "Weepy's a little too negative. I mean..." 

"Emotional?" I suggested. 

"Yes," Forge said. "Emotional. Though, I guess Antisthenes is emotional." He paused. "Angry emotional, I mean." 

We exchanged glances. 

"So, you have no idea either, huh?" I asked. 

"Nope," Forge said good-naturedly, "I'm just the techie." 

"They have other technicians also, don't they?" I asked. 

Suddenly, the bus jerked to the left a little before swerving back to the middle of the lane. 

"O-oh, sorry about that," Forge said absent-mindedly with a wide, almost nervous smile on his face. "I thought I saw something on the road." 

He was gripping the steering wheel tightly. 

I blinked. 

O-kay...starting to feel less secure now. 

"Um, so...?" I prompted. 

"Oh, yes," Forge said, still smiling. "U-h, well, there's Lanie and--and," here Forge's voice squeaked a little, "Weasel." 

"Weasel?" I asked. Okay, so that made it...Rogue, Forge, and _Weasel_ so far. Why didn't these people have normal names? 

"His real name's Jack, and he handles the lighting, the Web site, stuff like that," Forge said, studiously studying the road. 

I eyed him suspiciously. 

"He doesn't like it," Forge added. "Being called Jack, I mean. We just call him, uh, Weasel." 

"Oh, okay," I said. He seemed a little _too_ cool after the incident with nearly crashing into the other lane. 

Had I accidentally stepped into a rabbit hole or something? Jesus. 

"So, um, how long are we staying in Cleveland?" I asked. 

"Oh, I'd say three days," Forge said. 

"Three?" 

"Yeah, we step down the schedule a bit this time of year," he replied. 

"How long do you ordinarily stay in a city, then?" I asked. 

"Depends on the number of venues," Forge said thoughtfully. "Usually a day--day and a half." 

"Wow," I said. "I'd go crazy." 

Forge laughed and gestured at the door with a tilt of his head, "I guess that explains it, then." 

I smiled sardonically, "Not nearly enough." 

"They're good people," Forge said. "I'm friends with all of them." 

"Even Rogue?" I asked uneasily. Just thinking about her made me skittish. 

Forge chuckled. "Yeah, Rogue and I came to an agreement." 

"Oh?" What'd you do, feed her treats? 

"Yeah," Forge glanced at me, grinning, "I crank up the juice in her stereo until its volume capacity is unholy, and she doesn't hate me." 

"Really?" I asked, impressed. 

"Well, I'm assuming, anyway," Forge said. 

"How can you tell?" 

"She ignores me," he said with a laugh. 

And she doesn't bite your kneecaps off? Good bargain. 

"You don't think she hates me, do you?" I asked nervously. 

"Of course she does," Forge said. "She hates everyone she doesn't know." 

How comforting. 

"Honestly, though," Forge said, smiling, "the only person Rogue actually gets along with is Lance." 

Great. Jubilee and Johnny are crazy, Lance and Rogue are _psychotic_, and we're not even _starting_ on Tabitha and Mr. Xavier. 

I checked the clock on the radio. 

10:58. 

Sleeping was completely out of the question. What if Jubilee or Tabitha came in and mauled my poor, defenseless body? What if _Mr. Xavier_ came in and mauled my poor, defenseless body? Jesus, just thinking about it made me want to either hide or vomit. Maybe I could vomit and _then_ hide? 

My cell phone rang, and I quickly picked it up after glancing at the screen. It was Jean. 

"Hello, hello!" she said, sounding chipper. 

"It's almost eleven," I said. "What're you doing up?" 

"I don't know. I think I'm coming down with something." 

"Ergo, the Dayquil?" I asked wryly. 

"Ergo," Jean agreed, giggling. "Anyways, I'm taking a sick leave." 

"A _leave_?" I asked, bewildered. "For how long?" 

"Oh, I don't know." She coughed experimentally. "I think I've got...mono." 

Jean had had mono when she was fourteen. 

"No," I said. "No, you can't possibly be thinking o--" 

"It's _Maximoff_," Jean said, coming as close to a whine as she ever has. "_Pietro Maximoff_." 

"I know, but this is against your work ethic!" I exclaimed. "Don't compromise your _work ethic_ for a scumbag like him." 

"I swear, Scott," Jean said solemnly, "that if I see his little..._asswipe turdmonkey_ face again, I'm going to stuff my pumps down his throat." 

"Ow," I said. "That's a lot of hate." 

"I _like_ my pumps, too," Jean said, "but it'd be worth it." 

And how. But Pietro was probably _used_ to getting attacked with women's shoes. Or, at least, Kitty's. 

"How're things on the bus?" Jean asked, then, slyly. 

"Um," I said coherently. "Al...right." 

"Can't you find some little corner, and tell me everything?" Jean asked. 

"I don't think so," I said. 

"Where are you?" Jean sounded confused. "I don't hear anything in the background." 

"Oh, I'm, uh, I'm riding up front," I said. 

"What?! _Why_?" 

"Because," I said stubbornly. 

"_Scott_." 

"_Jean_. I really can't talk about this with you!" 

"_Sc-ott_!" 

"Look, I'll get you that autograph, but other than that--" 

"C'mon," Jean coaxed, "if I drop my work ethic, you can drop yours." 

"_What_?" I wish. 

"Scott," Jean began. 

"Not now," I said firmly. 

"Later?" she asked hopefully. 

"Maybe," I said. 

"Soon," Jean insisted. 

"No," I said. 

"Scott...!" 

"We're on the road," I protested. "There's nothing I can do!" 

"Christ," she muttered. "Scott--" 

"Look, I'll call you later, okay?" 

Jean made an incoherent, inherently miffed sound and hung up. I rolled my eyes and pocketed my cell again. 

Forge grinned at me as I did so; "Girlfriend?" 

"What?" I asked, startled. "Oh--no! No, no, that wasn't my girlfriend." 

Jesus, I'd be eaten alive if Jean were my girlfriend. 

"Oh, she's not?" Forge laughed lightly. "Sorry, then. My mistake." 

You have no idea. "It's no problem. Lots of people think we're dating, but we're, uh, not." 

"Obviously," Forge said with a smile. 

It was a while before I felt drowsy, and I started to fall asleep--read: pass out--around twelve, but was rudely interrupted by a voice in my ear saying, 

"Hey, sexy." 

I must've jumped at least fifty feet in the air, and all I could think was that this had to _stop_, the random ambushings. This story assignment just wasn't healthy. 

I turned to see who it was and groaned mentally: Lance. 

Jesus, I hate him. 

"Mr, uh, Alvers," I said, clearing my throat. He quirked an eyebrow at me. 

"Making yourself comfy, Summers?" he asked. 

"Um," I said groggily, glanced at the clock, and grimaced. 

1:38. 

Lance eyed me with amusement. 

"Jubilee wants to know if you can come back and play," he said. 

I cringed, and luckily, Forge came to my rescue with a smile; 

"Scott's taking a nap right now. Maybe after snacktime?" 

Lance stared at him hard, then asked slowly, "Say, Forge--how's Weasel?" 

Forge smiled really strangely and replied vaguely, "He's--good." 

He then fell silent. Fabulous. 

Lance grinned, snickering, "I bet," then turning back to me with an arch look. 

"C'mon, Summers," he drawled. "You fuckin' blow at stalking, y'know that?" 

I think I'm going to choose to take that as a compliment. 

As I followed Lance to the back again, I heard someone hitting two drumsticks together, yelling, 

"...Twenty-three! Twenty-four! Thirty-one! Thirty-two! Thirty-three! Thirty-four! Forty-one! Forty-two! Forty-three! F--" 

"Johnny, you'd better shut up or Rogue's gonna hear you!" 

"Oh, no, she won't--she's sleepin' in her coffin. Forty-four! Fif--" 

"Johnny, she'll eat your fuckin' liver." 

Pause. "Do you really think so?" 

"Well, she'll do _something_ to your liver, and it won't be pretty." 

"Jubi-lee...!" 

"I'm just warning you--Scotty!" 

"Ms. Lee," I said with a queasy smile. 

Johnny twirled the drumsticks he'd been abusing and tucked them under one arm like a riding crop. He leaned an elbow on Jubilee's shoulder and grinned rakishly at me; 

"How ya doin', ol' chap? We were beg'nning t'think you were eaten in the most _atrocious_ manner by Sir Alvers here!" 

Drugs. 

"What the hell kind of accent was that supposed to be?" Lance wondered aloud, obviously amused. 

"Cockney?" Jubilee suggested and grinned at Johnny, "Crikey, John-John! Oi'm just itchin' fuh t'shag ya!" 

"Darlin'," Johnny drummed for a second on his knee with a grin, then threw the sticks to the ground, "Whadarya waitin' fuh?!" 

_Drugs_. 

"Fo' shizzle," Jubilee laughed and they disappeared into the back of the bus. That is--the further back. ...I think? 

Lance watched them go, then looked at me with an arched eyebrow. 

"Um," I said. I searched for something to say. 

'Villainous cretin,' was what my sleep-fuzzed brain recommended. I decided that that would be the worst career choice. _Ever_. I was stuck in a bus going to Cleveland with a load of mentally unbalanced psychos. Mentally unbalanced, psycho crazies. Mentally unbalanced, psycho, crazy, lunatics. Mentally unbalanced, psycho, crazy loony... 

"Hey," Lance said. "How big are you?" 

_What_? 

"Ex-excuse me?" You mentally unbalanced, psycho, crazy, loony basketcase. 

"You asked me a question, so I get to ask you one now," he reminded me. 

"But...I..." You schizophrenic, sociopathic, morally deficient, sleazy imbecile. 

"So," Lance gave me an eat-shit--instead of shit-eating; ha! I'm so clever at one in the morning--grin, "you can tell me in centimeters, if you'd like." 

I stared at him. And I came to a conclusion that made me hate him even more: He wasn't crazy or high (though that aspect was debatable); he was acting like this just to piss me off, to get a rise. 

Scumball. 

"I'll measure and get back to you," I said in the most neutral voice I could muster. 

"Huh," Lance said. 

'Huh'? What the hell was _that_ supposed to mean? 

"Ever gotten stuck in a vacuum cleaner?" 

"No," I said. 

"Fondled yourself in front of a child?" 

"No," I said. 

"Whacked off in a public restroom?" 

"No." Pervert. 

"Dance on a pole?" 

"No." 

"_Want_ to dance on a pole?" 

"No." 

I sat down and watched him lean against one of the walls. 

"You asked me six," I said. "That means I get to ask you another two." 

Ha--beat you at your own game, _Mr._ Alvers. 

I looked at him smugly, expecting him to glare at me or scowl or yell obscenities, but he just crossed his arms, looked at me, and said, 

"Sure." 

  


  


  


  


"Lookit--we've all got mah-velous suites!" 

Tabitha greeted us as soon as we got off of the bus. She had changed and was now clad in what looked to be a stylish two-piece, midriff-baring jumpsuit. What Jean would've termed a '_suicidal orange_' jumpsuit, at that. 

Lance had been the first off the bus and was now standing next to Tabitha, who had curled an arm around his waist. He appeared to be drugged. 

Johnny? 

"Scott, baby," Tabitha cooed--wired, apparently. Or not?--and took my hand. "How was the ride over? Like the bus, hey? I designed the inside myself." 

I should've thought as much. 

"I've never seen anything like it," I said mildly. From behind me, Johnny snorted, 

"Looks like a bad 60s acid trip, huh?" He patted the side fondly. "I love's it." 

"Hey," Forge had finished helping unload the bus, "have Lanie and--the others finished setting up everything...?" 

"Don't worry, Forge-baby," Tabitha grinned impishly, "Weasel and the kids are unpacked and rarin' to go, y'know." 

Forge gave her the most bizarre look I've ever seen, before excusing himself, smiling pleasantly, and walking calmly back to the driver's side. Then there was the sound of the engine turning over as the bus squealed off, disappearing in a matter of seconds. 

We stared after him. Well, I did. Jubilee just remarked with a small measure of surprise, 

"He took the tourbus." 

No. Really? 

Lance quirked an eyebrow, turned to Tabitha, and said slowly, "Keys?" 

She grinned and tucked it in the back pocket of his jeans. 

Johnny laughed. "Lancers, are we bunkin' together?" 

"Go watch porn on your own tv, asshole," Lance replied, already at the front entrance. 

Ew. Porn. 

"Scooterboy, here are your keys," Tabitha eyed me, and I coughed, holding out my hand and stepping back simultaneously. 

"Thank you," I said politely. 

She snickered at me and went to direct two uniformed me to cart up the luggage. Out of paranoia and a healthy sense of self-preservation, I hurried to intercept them before they got to my suitcase. I was in such a hurry, in fact, that I accidentally bumped into a lady on the sidewalk. Smooth, Summers. 

"Oh, I--sorry," I apologized hastily. Dammit, I couldn't even walk straight! 

"Watch it," she snapped and clutched her...large...straw purse? 

I stared at her for a moment. She was wearing a gray business skirt and top, black pumps, blue kid gloves, _sunglasses_, and a bright purple shawl, which was wrapped around her head like a babushka. 

_What_? 

I decided it was irrelevant and rushed to save my clothes. I was nearly too late but managed the grab the handle to my suitcase just as Tabitha was about to merrily fondle it onto the cart. 

Jesus Christ, I was going to have to bleach it later or something. 

"I'll see you in the morning, sweetheart," she said to me with what appeared to be a flirty come-hither look. 

Fortunately, my brain was already beyond fried from the trip over. 

I mumbled my thanks and struggled up to my room with a headache, a notepad full of scribbles and a suitcase I was beginning to think was overpacked. 

"Wake-up call's at seven!" Tabitha called after me. 

I groaned mentally. 

_Fabulous_. 

  


  


  


  


  


  


~tbc~ 


	4. Save Document

Title: Readme.txt 

Part: 4/? 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: PG-13 

Pairings: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance; Weasel/Forge, Forge/Weasel 

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. 

Spoilers: Nada. 

Warnings: Slash (m/m relationship), AU (which means **Alternate Universe**, for those who don't know.) 

  


  


Notes: Yeah! So...um...yeah! 

By the way, if I have not replied to your review yet, I'm extremely, totally, completely sorry >.O I had a few days of a 'Woe, my life is a black hole. Well, not really. But my mom's being mean, so I'm going to sit here and play Solitaire. Nyah.' funk, so...yes. Hope you enjoy this chapter! It is in honor of X23 tomorrow. ...Never mind, I take that back. *fires X23* 

  


  


Additional Notes: Thank you _sososososo_ much to my faithful reviewers and supporters, in no particular order: Morwen O'Conner, Lyo, Shindo, N, BatE, sugar.coated, Melly, Flick, Absolute Alcohol, Olhado, Laureate, VertigoMesmerizer, MiracleChick, Edainme, ShadowCreature, Pyromaniac, Katreon of Team Socket, and last but not least, Katherine. 

  


  


Additional-er Notes: Go check out the Blind Fish Archive! You can find the link at www.geeky-pirate.net. We're looking forward to you submitting!   


  


Enjoy and Review!!!...please? 

  


  


  


  


-- 

  
  


The next few days passed in a blur. A wacky, mentally disturbing blur. The first venue Antisthenes played at was somewhere in Cleveland--the Agora Theater, I think it was called. It was not as frightening as my first concert-going experience, but I think that that was mostly because I wasn't in the moshpit this time around. 

I also got to know the band a little better, which could be either a good thing or a bad one. I think that it was mostly a good one--except for Tabitha's hand trying to periodically snake itself down my waistband--and I might as well chalk it up to a 'life experience.' A life experience imbued with sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. I guess what they say is true. 

Jubilee and Johnny were particularly forthcoming with information. However, neither of them were too fond of discussing their childhoods; Jubilee ranted a little about her parents but that was all. Most of her tirades about her parents ended up with, "I love them, but y'know, I really, really _don't_ like them." Fascinating, I'm sure. Johnny acted pretty similar when I brought up high school and other childhood experiences. However, he was a little sneakier about it; instead of telling me outright that he didn't feel like talking about it, he changed subjects or cleverly distracted me with something else. Like almost throwing my shoe out the window, which was an entirely too traumatizing experience that I've already blocked from my memory. 

Rogue was a subject that I wasn't about to touch with a ten-foot-pole. I was actually planning a twelve-step program to help work up my courage to approach her and ask one or two questions. Or maybe to say, "Please don't hate me. I'm a good person, really. I went to Sunday school for five years when I was little." 

Maybe I could ask Forge for help? 

Actually, for about two or three days, Forge seemed suspiciously happy. More than before, that is. I suspect that maybe Johnny accidentally did something to Forge's drink or something at one point, but Jean told me that he probably just got laid. I don't think I want to think about Forge getting laid; I've been a little adverse to that ever since I realized that he reminded me of my mother. Who would Forge have sex with anyways? 

Anyways, I had achieved a sort of equilibrium with Antisthenes and its crazy agent and financier. Jubilee and Johnny teased me and I more or less didn't let it get to me; Rogue ignored me and I avoided her as much as possible; Tabitha tried to paw me like I was a bar wench, and I dodged her attempts. Everyone was relatively happy with the circumstances. Everyone except for Lance, of course. 

Undaunted by my forced neutrality, he continued to be a crass sonuvabitch, making interviewing more difficult than I had ever imagined possible. He kept up his 'one-for-one' idea where I asked a few perfectly legitimate questions and he proceeded to waste my time with a few asinine, obscene ones. He didn't even have the courtesy to try to avoid me either. When I asked him if I could ask him a few questions, he'd either say something like, "These ones'd better not fuckin' suck." or "No. Go away." No matter what, he _wouldn't cooperate_. 

I was going out of my fucking mind. 

How was I supposed to write an article about this guy when he was obviously hell-bent on screwing me over? 

I was sure that I was going to get cheerfully reamed a week and a half from now by our editor-in-chief. However, then everything changed. 

And I'm still trying to figure out if it's a good change or a bad change. 

"Summers," I heard someone call from outside my hotel door. Jesus, it was three in the morning. Who in their sane minds would...? 

Right. Forget I asked. 

I had fallen asleep on top of my notes, which I'd been reviewing. Yeah, not the most exciting part of the creative journalistic process, otherwise known as the 'The things I do for my craft' portion. 

Rubbing a hand over my face, I stumbled from my bed and unlatched the door. On the other side was Lance. Just what I need to make my night complete. 

"Mr. Alvers," I said groggily, "what are y--?" 

"Hey," he held up a case of bottleneck beer, "Wanna get drunk off your ass?" 

My initial response was to just say no, since abstinence is the better choice when it comes to substance abuse and screwing and things like that. So far this week, though, I've been touched by a woman more than I have in my entire life, I've gotten thrown into a moshpit, been nearly run over by a Sarah Lee truck, and had a disturbing conversation with Johnny Allerdyce about the benefits of wearing Speedos. 

"Sure," I said, even though conventional common sense warned against it. Screamed against it, in fact, but hey, I was tired, traumatized, and I'd pretty much given up any pretense of professionalism. 

Lance popped the cap off one bottle and tossed me one behind his back. 

Classy. 

"Thanks," I said and took a drink before I could use the bottle to bash myself over the head for the absurdity of it all. Yes, Lance and I are frequent drinking buddies, you see. Between Buffalo Wing Wednesdays, Bowling Tournament Thursdays, and Disco Fever Fridays, that is. Every other week, we have a family barbecue, too. 

Lance collapsed comfortably on my couch in a lazy sprawl and peered around. 

"Your hotel room's crappier than mine," he remarked. 

Well, I'm no rock star, but... 

"So, uh, why...?" I sat down gingerly in an armchair opposite him. 

"Oh, yes," Lance said. "'Why.' Why am I here, why at three in the fuckin' morning; why does shit happen, why are funnel cakes good with chocolate but crap with fruit?" 

I stared at him. Was he drunk already? 

"Um," I said. I was confused. Asshole. 

"Let me ask you somethin', Summers," Lance said. 

"It's not your turn," I joked nervously. 

"Then I'd like an advance withdrawal from the bank of I Don't Give A Shit," Lance replied with a drawl. 

Cute. Don't remember hearing about _that_ in Monopoly. 

"Go ahead," I said. 

"Why the fuck are you here?" 

I blinked, took a gulp of the beer, and winced at the icy burn of it down my throat. I tried to read the label to see what brand it was, but couldn't because the light was too dim. 

"_Why_?" I repeated, baffled. "What do you mean--" 

"Obviously you don't give a crap about the music," Lance said dryly, "and I can see you ain't too fuckin' thrilled about traveling to random cities, so what is it? Money?" 

"No, it's not for the money," I replied sharply. "I wouldn't do this for money." 

"Then what's the fuckin' point?" Lance asked, actually seeming somewhat interested. Well, maybe he didn't, since he was more concerned with the condensation on his beer bottle. 

"It's hard to explain," I said, unwilling to spill my guts to someone who I'd just spent the better part of the week hating. 

"Why don't you try anyway," Lance suggested. 

"I think I'd rather put in a deposit," I said mildly. 

"Where?" Lance was peeling the label off of his bottle now. 

"The bank," I said. 

"Of I Don't Give A Shit?" Lance seemed amused. 

"Yes, that one," I said. 

"Your transaction has been rejected," Lance said. 

"Why?" I asked, perturbed that we'd been talking for some time now about an imaginary bank that existed only in Lance's head. 

"New policy," Lance explained. "You can only withdraw." 

"That can't be good for the bank," I observed. 

"Well, they don't give a shit," Lance grinned. 

"Jesus," I said. 

"Fuckin' Christ," Lance finished for me. He reached for another beer. 

"Let me ask you another question," he said, popping off the lid and flicking it at me. He had suprisingly good aim for a stoned, psychopathic alcoholic. 

"What?" I asked. 

"What makes you think you're fuckin' good enough to write about other people?" 

"_What_?" I stared at him, open-mouthed and stunned. 

"Y'know--develop your little fuckin' opinions from your little fuckin' cubicle about shit you'd never even fuckin' understand 'cause you think it's so goddamned beneath you." 

"I don't," I said, outraged. "_We_ don't. We're just trying to write about--" 

"What, the fuckin' truth?" Lance snorted in disbelief and tipped his bottle back, effectively draining half of it. 

"The truth," he said then, eyeballing the bottle, "can kiss...my...ass." 

Intelligent. 

"How would you know what it's like to be a journalist?" I demanded. "You say _I_ presume to know what it's like for other people--which I don't--" 

"Bullshit," Lance said. 

"--and _you're_ talking like _you_ know what--" 

"Hey, hey, I don't fuckin' _presume_ anythin', yeah, Summers? I don't fuckin' write _articles_ about people, do I?" 

Lance balanced his bottle on one knee for a moment before catching it by the neck as it swayed. 

"That's what it comes down to," Lance said. "Being a little fuckin' _snot_ and writing like you know every-fuckin'-thing." 

"That's not true," I argued, a little louder than I intended. 

"Blow me," Lance said. 

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" I exclaimed. "All I'm trying to do is write a--an _article_ featuring your _band_! Why won't you just cooperate?" 

It was like he was some kind of paranoid chimp or something! 

"Why the fuck _should_ I cooperate?" Lance asked, leaning back, dropping his now empty bottle on the floor, and rolling it under his foot. "Why should I fuckin' cooperate when you're gonna sit here, play nice, then go back and pretend like you fuckin' know me?" 

"It's my _job_," I said, the only word in my head repeating over and over: Bastard, bastard, bastard. Jesus, I hated him. I _hated_ him. 

"It's your job?" Lance laughed out loud. "Your job is to fuckin' get to know me? Well, I'm tellin' you right now, Summers--you might know where I'm born, who my parents were, what my middle name is--all this _fuckin' shit_, but you don't know the first _fuckin'_ thing about me." 

"Yeah?" I asked, not knowing what else to say. 

"Yeah," Lance said harshly, leaning forward. 

"You're a jackass," I said, practically shaking from anger. 

"Fuck you," he said. 

And then we kissed. 

... 

And kissed and kissed and kissed. 

Holy fucking Jesus. 

Holy fucking Jesus _Christ_. 

"Mr.--Alvers," I said finally when I could breathe again. 

Don't panic. 

"Hey, I think you're crushin' the beer," he said very nonchalantly. 

I was in his lap, my hand braced on top of the case of beer he'd brought. 

Don't panic. Happy things--bunnies, ducks, babies--babies? Spooky--_Don't panic_. 

"O-oh," I said and shifted off of him. He followed me with his eyes. I rubbed at my mouth. 

"Um-m," I said. 

Oh, fuck. _Fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

"That bad?" he asked, half-smirking. 

"Uh-h," I said. 

No, it really wasn't. Which was bad. Very, very, very-- 

"Hmm," Lance said, uncapped another bottle of beer, and gave it to me. He looked at me strangely before saying slowly, 

"I'm gonna go to bed now." 

"Okay," I said. 

He wandered into the bedroom where I heard him take off his shoes, drop them on the carpet, and then silence. 

I looked down. Parts of me were doing happy things that had nothing to do with bunnies, ducks, _or_ spooky babies. 

"Jesus," I muttered and threw back the bottle, downing almost half of the beer at once. 

"_Jesus_." 

  


  


  


  


I woke up the next morning with a headache the size of Manhattan, a half-empty bottle of beer on my stomach, and Lance's hand down my pants. 

"What the _hell_ are you doing!?" I yelped and immediately wished I hadn't. My head spun so much I was practically seeing funhouse mirrors. 

Lance rolled his eyes, his hand actually groping around _under_ my pants. 

"You're sittin' on my room key, asshole," he said. 

"Shit," I mumbled and rolled off the couch onto the empty cardboard beer case. Apparently, my common sense had eloped with my sense of logic and my _idiocy_ had decided to have a party without them. 

Then I remember last night and began panicking. 

"Christ, you're just fuckin' peachy in the morning," Lance commented almost cheerfully. 

He flung himself into the armchair, snagged the complimentary cashew mix off the coffee table, and started tossing them up and catching them in his mouth. Like a seal. 

A smirking, sonuvabitch seal.--Hey, alliteration. 

Jesus, I was never going to drink again. 

I pushed myself up from the floor, swayed, and caught onto the top of the television with difficulty. Lance watched me with amusement. 

"Fuck, you really cleaned out, hey?" Lance said, glancing around and kicking an empty bottle. I ran my hand through my hair. 

"I'm going to go take a shower," I mumbled. 

"Have fun," he called after me with a snicker. 

_Bastard_. 

I managed to stop hyperventilating long enough to take a shower, pack, and reach the lobby without having an epileptic seizure. So far so good. 

"Scottyboy!" Johnny was a morning person, apparently. I generally was, too. _When I wasn't nursing the mother of all hangovers_, that is. 

"Mr. Allerdyce," I said. 

"It's Johnny," He reminded me, slugging me playfully in the shoulder. 

Ow. 

"Man, you look like shit," he said cheerfully. 

Thanks, I know I'm stunning after eight restful hours of beauty sleep--as opposed to five hours, four of which were spent passed out, dehydrated from an obscene amount of cheap beer, that is. 

"Rough night," I said. 

"Ooh, get lucky?" Johnny asked with a squirrelly grin. 

I blanched and squeaked, "No-o-o." 

"Was she cute?" Johnny elbowed me in the ribs. 

"No, I--" I began when I was interrupted by Lance, who drawled, 

"She was hot as fuckin' hell." 

_Bastard_! 

Johnny whooped and thumped me on the back a few times. I tried to ignore him and poured a cup of the complimentary coffee. It actually fossilized my tongue upon contact, the coffee, and I made a face. 

"What was her name?" Johnny was gleefully asking Lance. 

"Lauren," Lance said, smirking at me. 

"Blonde?" Johnny grinned. I couldn't tell if he knew Lance was bullshitting or not. 

"Brunette," Lance answered, kicking his heels back and on top of the stack of magazines on the coffee table that was between two couches arranged to mimic a living room in the lobby. 

"She wasn't at all what I thought she was like," I said, attempting to be venomous but only succeeding to sound slightly prissy. 

I'm going home right now to self-flagellate. 

"And what did you think she was like?" Lance asked, turning to look at me. He was smirking. 

"I thought that she was a self-righteous b--itch," I said flatly, "And--well, I guess I was right, actually." 

Johnny started laughing. He grinned at me and I grinned back, but stopped when I looked back at Lance. Instead of smirking or retorting back with some half-assed insult, he was just looking at me. He didn't seem upset or anything, but he was just..._looking_ at me. I coughed and tried to look away, but I kept getting distracted and looking back at him. 

Finally, he leaned forward a little and said, very clearly and very slowly: 

"Summers?" 

"Ye-s?" I asked, finding the tile ceiling very interesting all of a sudden. Hey, look. It's three shades lighter than the, uh, light blue in our office. Intriguing. 

I looked back at him. He arched an eyebrow. 

"How's your headache?" 

"Um, better," I said. 

He stretched a little. "Too bad." 

I blinked. 

"Hey there, kiddies!" Tabitha swaggered in, wearing a black pinstripe suit, sunglasses, and a matching cherry-red tie, heels and beret. She looked like a mime who had turned to the sinful ways of the Italian mafia. Must be the beret. 

She tipped her sunglasses so that she could look over them. "We're loading the bus now--hey, Jubes-sweetie! John-John, Lancers, Sc-ottypie--so get some breakfast and meet you on in fifteen!" 

Johnny mock-saluted, and she clicked her heels together, winked, and did a sharp military turnabout before leaving the lobby, marching. 

"Man, oh, man," Johnny moaned, "I'm gonna marry that chick someday." 

He laughed, slapped Lance in the shoulder with the back of his hand, and pointed at him, "I'm dyin' for a bagel. You want I should getcha one?" 

"Nah," Lance said and glanced over to the other couch. "Jubes?" 

I hadn't noticed Jubilee before, mostly because she had managed to curl herself up like a shrimp. She was wearing a neon green hoodie, so I'm surprised I didn't see her. 

She unfurled, yawned widely, and rubbed carefully at one eye, making sure not to smudge the matching green eyeshadow there. 

"Mmcereal," she said sleepily. 

Johnny bounded over to her like an obnoxious Jack Russell and threw her over his shoulder, one arm locked behind her knees. Jubilee just crossed her arms on his shoulder, pillowing her chin on them, and waved to us as they left. 

"Um," I said and tentatively waved back. 

When they had gone, I looked back at Lance and started hyperventilating again. 

"You know," I said, "we should get something to eat, breakfast being the best medicine and all." 

"That's laughter," Lance said. 

"Wouldn't you like some fruit? Fruit's good--fresh." 

"How the fuck did you get laughter and breakfast confused, you dildo?" 

"How about toast? Toast is...toasty." 

"Love, I could understand. Hell, anything but breakfast." 

"Pancakes?" 

Lance quirked an eyebrow and I stopped babbling. Jesus, just get me _out_ of here. 

"So," he drawled, "you think I'm a self-righteous bitch, yeah?" 

"Um," I said. 

He stood up crossed the room and was soon only a few feet from me. He looked at me for a minute, apparently unimpressed. 

"Y'know, you really are just a fuckin' prude," he said. 

"Oh," I said. "Scotch tape." 

What? 

He stared at me. "_What_?" 

"I don't know," I said. "But they say you can tell if someone's a prude by, uh, whether or not they reuse scotch tape dispensers." 

"With your track record with idioms, I'm pretty sure you're fuckin' this one up, too," Lance said. 

"No," I said, "it's--scotch tape." 

"How the fuck is that even possible?" 

"You get a new roll," I said, gesticulating. "And-and you stick it on the, uh...dispenser-thing." 

"A new roll," Lance said flatly. 

"Yes." 

"That you stick on the...dispenser-thing." 

"Yep," I fidgeted. "Sounds right." 

"What if you have one o'those cheapass plastic ones?" 

"Same difference," I said nervously. 

"Oh, same _difference_," he said, mocking my scotch-tape wisdom. 

"You really are a jackass," I said. 

"So're you," he said agreeably. 

And I kissed him. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

I could hear my little Kurt-voice that pops up every time I do something stupid, and it was telling me that it was confused because I'd said the word 'fuck' more in the space of less than a day than I had in my entire life. It was also telling me that this was a very fucking good kiss. And that, like an idiot, I had forgotten to breathe. 

"Jesus," I said, but it came out as 'Jebuthh' because I'd forgotten to actually disentangle my lips from Lance's before I'd started talking again. 

"Are you noticing a vicious cycle here?" Lance asked. "Y'know, insult-kiss, insult-kiss?" 

"This has only been the second time," I said. 

"Asswipe," he said. 

"Bastard," I said. 

He pushed me against the reception counter and slid his fingers through my hair and I wrapped an arm around his shoulder and another around his waist and we kissed. A lot. 

"Oh, shit," I said. 

"Good shit or bad shit?" he wondered rhetorically. 

I braced my arms on the counter to keep myself upright. My knees had stopped functioning somewhere around the time Lance had untucked my oxford, and now I was having trouble breathing. I glanced up and he said decisively, eyeing me, 

"Chicken-shit." 

"Jackass," I said shakily. 

"You've already said that one," he said. 

"_Jackass_," I repeated, and he kissed his way down my neck and I had my mouth against his ear when I heard Johnny cavorting down the hallway, singing loudly and off-key, 

"_I wanna be an airborne ranger_!" 

"Jesus," I muttered and Lance pulled away from me. He quirked an eyebrow. 

"Dipshit?" he tried. 

I glared at him and redid the top three buttons of my shirt he had managed to unfasten. He spread his hands, shrugging as if to say, 'Hey, brownie points for effort?', and I couldn't help but laugh a little. 

"I'm beginning to think that this is an unhealthy relationship," I joked. 

"Oh, so there's a relationship now?" he asked, half-smirking again. 

I froze. 

"Do _you_ wanna be an airborne ran-nger, too?!" Johnny yelled, swinging around Lance and airguitaring. 

"Is that the only line you know?" Lance snickered. 

"C'mon, man," Johnny said loudly and cheerily. "C'mon, _dude_!" 

He jogged off and Lance rolled his shoulders, walking after him. He had his hands in his jeans pockets and he slouched a little as he walked. I stared after him. 

"Uh, yes?" I said dumbly, a little too late since Lance was already out by the tourbus now. 

I ran my hand through my hair and licked my lips once. 

That bastard. I think I want him. 

  


  


  


  


"J-Jean?" 

"Hi, Scott! I have mono." 

Sigh. "Oh, Jesus..." 

"Ha. I think half the office is coming down with mono, actually." 

"_Jean_." 

"Oh, come _on_! You don't feel sorry for the guy, do you?" 

"No, but we _do_ have a newspaper to publish." 

A pause. "Oh, yeah." 

"Jean." 

"Hm. That's your 'I just spilled half my Pepsi on myself' Jean, isn't it?" 

"What?" 

"Well, every time you say 'Jean' this certain way, it usually means you screwed something up really badly--oh, my God, you're not stranded somewhere because they kicked you off the bus, are you?!" 

"Shut up!" 

"Okay, I guess not." Giggle. 

Grumble. "It's worse." 

"UFO encounter?" 

"Something like that." 

"What?" Bewilderment. "I was kidding." 

"It only works if you think about it as UFO encounter leads to probing which leads to--" 

"God, you had _sex_, didn't you!?" 

"Ow! Would you lower your voice?--And, _no_, I didn't!" 

"Then what? Probing?" 

"Jesus. Okay, well...I...I sort of...um..." Quick mumble. 

"You fished?" 

"I kissed." 

"You kissed a fish?" 

"_No_! I--" 

"You wished you kissed a fish dish?" 

"...I'm sure you think you're very funny, but the truth is that you're not." 

Small laugh. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. You kissed what?" 

Mumble. 

"Dance? You kissed a danc...ing...fish?" 

"No!" 

"Well, all I heard was 'kiss' and something that ends in '-ance,' which could only b--...Oh, my God." 

"Yeah." 

"...Scott." 

"Yeah." 

"You--?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"...You realize what this means, don't you?' 

"My entire career is shot. I'm going to be known as the Wallstreet slut!" 

"Scott..." 

"I'll have to go work for Fox news because no one else will want me!" 

"Scot--" 

"_I'm ruined_!" 

"Okay, Mr. My Byline Says Melodrama, first of all, your career won't be ruined, and second of all, you're forgetting the more dire implication of your steamy little make-out session with our favorite little rock 'n' sex star." 

"What?" 

"_He's gay_." 

"...Well, bi, I'd say." 

"You mean you don't know?!" 

"I didn't _ask_." 

"Why not?" 

"Well, how the hell was I supposed to do that?! 'Say, could you remove your tongue from my throat for a second? I'd like to ask you about your sexuality.'" 

"Oh, whatever! It doesn't matter. All that matters is that all his fangirls are going to be _pissed_." 

"Great. That's just _great_." 

"Scott, are you serious about this?" 

"I'm not joking, if that's what you mean." 

"No, I mean, are you and Lance...uh...you know?" 

"What? No! I mean, uh--I-I don't _know_!" 

A pause. "Huh. Oh, well." 

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" 

"I mean, you still get to make out with him, right?" 

"_Jean_!" 

"Well, you do." 

"Jean, that's be_side_ the point!" 

"...Aww." 

"...What?" 

"You're flustered." 

"I am _not_!" 

"You _like_ him." 

"On the contrary, I think he's a conniving sonuvabitch." 

"Ouch. That's harsh." 

Sigh. "Anyways, I have to go now. I'll call you later?" 

"Please do. It'd be even better if you could give me all the details about th--" 

"Good-_bye_, Jean." 

"But...!" 

"_Good-bye_!" 

  


  


  


  


"Off to Wisconsin now," Forge said cheerfully when I got back in the passenger side. We pulled away from the rest stop with a loud rumble. 

"_Wisconsin_?" I asked. 

I hadn't known that people visited Wisconsin for things other than relatives. 

"Yeah, trippy, isn't it?" Forge started whistling a jaunty tune. 

Wasn't Wisconsin the cheese state? 

"How long are we staying in, uh, Wisconsin?" 

"Probably just a day," Forge replied. 

Surprise, surprise. You mean there aren't any exciting nightlife attractions deep in the heart of Wisconsin's throbbing cities? I was reminded of Ohio (1). 

"Huh," I said. 

Forge hummed idly, and I glanced at him, suspicious. He seemed disturbingly chipper. 

"Have a good night's sleep?" I asked mildly. 

"Mm-hmm," Forge nodded slightly, still humming under his breath. 

I peered outside, trying not to think about Lance and our maybe-sort-of-kind-of relationship. 

I think investigative journalism could wait one day. 

Yeah. Sounds about right. 

We reached the venue in Wisconsin at a reasonably sane time--about six in the evening or so. It was, uh...small. 

"Babies, how's everything going?" Tabitha cried when she clambered down from the small luxury car that she and Mr. Xavier had been traveling in. I watched her with resentment. Why didn't _she_ have to travel with her crazy band? 

"Peachy keen," Johnny said brightly. He looked a little wilted--something, I learned later from Jubilee, that was attributed to his being locked in the back with Rogue for an hour and a half--but regained his usual peppiness once he saw the venue. Rats. 

"Oi, Tabs, we've almost got the stage up," said a girl with short, choppy blonde hair in two small pigtails. I hadn't seen her before, since usually I didn't venture backstage. However, from the looks of the place, the backstage was probably as big as the tourbus. How roomy? 

The girl--Lanie, I'm assuming--seemed to have a permanent scowl on her violet lips. She was wearing a denim jumpsuit and thick, orange, rubber gloves. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she held a wrench in one hand. For a split second, I was afraid she was going to throw it at someone. 

"Ah, perfect, perfect," Tabitha gushed, throwing an arm around the Lanie's shoulders. "And where's our favorite little Tinkerbell?" 

Lanie snorted, untangled herself from Tabitha's arm, and yelled, "Hey, Weasel!" 

The mechanic formerly known as Tinkerbell? 

I saw a short boy with tousled, slightly spiky black hair jog in. Resting on top of his head was a pair of large goggles. He also had a gray bandanna tied as a headband around his forehead, which he pulled off as he approached us so that it hung around his neck like a scarf. Like Lanie, he was wearing a denim jumpsuit and thick rubber gloves, but instead of a wrench, he had a big box of tools. It seemed very heavy, because his shoulders were pulled down to a hunch and he looked a little off-balance because of it. He toddled over to us and grinned brilliantly. I stared at him. 

Jesus, the kid looked like...well, a kid. He couldn't've been more than eighteen, nineteen years old! 

Sweatshop labor? 

He breathed a sigh of relief as he carefully set the box on the ground, pulled off one glove with difficulty, and held out his hand, 

"Scott Summers?" he asked tentatively, still smiling. 

"Um, that's right," I said, shook his hand. 

"I'm Weasel," Weasel said brightly and politely, "and this is Lanie. Nice to meet you." 

"Introductions!" Tabitha crowed, clapping Weasel on the back. "You're such a cutiepie, darling." 

Weasel smiled indulgently and shook his slightly damp bangs out of his eyes. 

"How's the stage set-up goin'?" Johnny asked, leaning an elbow on Weasel's shoulder. 

"Oh, just fine," Weasel said, made a face, then added with excitement, "Well, they've got some real ancient stuff in here that's completely incompatible with our equipment, so we've got to take some transistors and build a conduit to leak off the excess electricity and..." 

Johnny turned Weasel around, arm still on his shoulder, and steered him toward the concert hall as Weasel continued on, apparently intrigued. 

"Wow, that's great, kid," I heard Johnny say with amusement, and Lanie, who was trailing behind the two of them, rolled her eyes. 

I blinked. 

"Met Weasel, hey?" Lance said from beside me. I started and moved away from him, hyperventilating. 

"Uh, yeah. How _old_ is he?" 

"Nineteen," Lance said, "I think. He's only barely fuckin' legal." 

He grinned. "When he first joined us, we had to get _permission slips_ for this guy. Crazy, hey?" 

"Yeah," I said. "Crazy." 

He arched an eyebrow at me. 

"What're you bitchin' to yourself about now?" he asked. 

"What? I--nothing," I said, bewildered. 

Lance rolled his eyes. "You've been acting fucked-up since yesterday." He paused. "Well, you've _always_ been fucked-up, y'know, but...moreso." 

"I'm not--!" I protested. 

Lance buzzed at me. 

Yes, he actually buzzed. 

_How_? 

"End of story," Lance said. "Sorry, but the voting booth is closed." 

"Wha--" 

"Please come back tomorrow, and pull the fuckin' lever," he said, and promptly _scaled_ the side of the tour bus. I stared after him. I heard a loud thump as he went ahead and sprawled on the top of the tour bus, humming loudly, his head pillowed on his crossed arms. 

Jesus, this guy was _crazy_! Of course, that was no news, but _still_. 

I heard the driver's side door slam and Forge emerged from the other side of the bus, glancing about furtively. 

"Forge?" I asked, confused. 

"Scott," he said pleasantly enough, then: "Have you seen Weasel?" 

"Oh, I just met him," I said, turning to gesture at the concerthall, which was labeled 'Rosalindj.' How coherent. "He went to finish setting up, I think." 

"Oh," Forge said vaguely, "thanks." 

"Are you--?" I began, but he just walked past me and disappeared through the back door. 

"--okay?" I finished pointlessly. 

Why was everyone acting so strange today? Johnny, Jubilee and Tabitha were the only ones who were--dare I say it--somewhat _normal_. And that's just not right. 

I glanced back at the bus and Lance's tennis-shoe-clad foot, which was the only visible part of him, and sighed. 

Sometimes I hate myself. 

I scrambled noisily up the hood of the bus--nearly falling and saved only by my quickly grabbing a windshield wiper--and plunked myself down uneasily on the roof of the bus. My legs were dangling off the side and I was clutching the railing on the sides just a little too tightly. I felt like I was about to puke up a new flavor of chunky oatmeal. 

I'm just a little afraid of heights. 

Just a little. 

Lance, on the other hand, was on his back, his arms crossed under his head and his eyes closed. He seemed to be resting peacefully, the bastard. 

"I'm not fucked-up," I said after a moment. 

I watched him closely. 

"Hmm," Lance said. 

"And I'm not fucked-up about yesterday, either," I added. He didn't reply. 

"Are you asleep?" I asked, annoyed, after waiting for several minutes. 

"Hmmmm," he said intelligently. 

"Jesus," I muttered. 

I was just about ready to climb back down when I heard him ask groggily, 

"Why do you always say that?" 

I frowned and turned back toward him, 

"Say what?" 

"'Jesus.' You say it every fuckin' five minutes." He hadn't opened his eyes or even moved. 

"I don't know," I admitted at length. "I guess I just do." 

"Hmm," he said again. "Isn't that blasphemous?" 

"What?" I asked. 

"Ye of fuckin' Christian faith," Lance elaborated. "Don't you, y'know, get your fuckin' eyes plucked out by divine fire or whatever if you take God's name in vain?" 

"Well," I said, "I'm not very religious." 

Lance rolled over so that he was on his side, and he looked at me. 

"Are you shittin' me?" he asked flatly. "You? Scott Joe-John-Jack-Bob Summers? I thought you'd be the one who was a fuckin' altarboy when you were little." 

I was quiet. 

"I got kicked out," I said finally. 

He snorted incredulously. "You can't get kicked out of the fuckin' church." 

"You want to bet?" I challenged. "I _got_ kicked _out_." 

"For what?" Lance asked, sneering. "You read the Bible so much you decided you were gonna fuckin' correct the reverend?" 

"No, I...I, well, I..." I coughed and mumbled in as low a voice as I could manage. 

Lance blinked. 

"What?" he asked, baffled. 

"Drunk," I said, annoyed for having to repeat myself. "I got drunk." 

He arched an eyebrow. "No fuckin' kidding?" 

"It was a dare," I said defensively. 

"A dare," Lance repeated skeptically. 

I glared at him. 

"They said I wouldn't do it," I said, "and I did." 

"Yeah, you showed _them_," Lance snickered. "Do you realize how fuckin' lame and unoriginal that is?" 

"Shut up," I said, glowering. 

Lance started laughing, continuing as if he hadn't heard me, "You can't even be badass without being a fuckin' prude...!" 

I frowned and tried to ignore him. He was on his back now, chuckling to himself. 

"It's not _that_ funny," I said mildly. 

"You should write a fuckin' article about it," he rasped in reply. 

I opened my mouth to retort when the whole situation struck me as irrepressibly hilarious. I was sitting on top of a tourbus with a rock star--who I'd made out with several hours before--talking about how I'd gotten kicked out of church. 

It was like a bad dream after a night of indigestion, and I had no doubt that the bus might be interpreted as Freudian. 

Without much thought, I scooted back so that I was sitting next to him and stretched out my legs. 

"Tried-and-true methods of delinquency," I quipped experimentally, "for all nonconformist punks." 

Lance banged his hand against the roof and practically cackled. 

"That's alright, Summers," he said, grinning. "That's okay." 

I smiled nervously. I wasn't sure why Lance had been so inexplicably amused, but it was nice not getting insulted. I snuck a look at him out of the corner of my eye and wish I hadn't. 

He was watching me, a faint smile still on his face. 

I started hyperventilating again. Which must've been obvious, because Lance commented not-so-helpfully, 

"If you keel over from shortness of breath, I'd like to remind you that it's pretty fuckin' far to the ground." 

"I'm not going to keel over," I told him archly. 

"Sure," he said, and I bristled, but for some reason I didn't feel too irritated. 

So we just sat there. Well, I sat there, and he just lied down on his back and hummed to himself. I might've found it boring at another time, but for some reason, I didn't mind it nearly as much. It must've been all the beer from the night before. 

Or maybe it was Lance's hand on my knee. 

Oh, Jesus. I think I really _do_ want him. 

  


  


  


  


"Jump up, bubble up, what's in stor-r-re," Johnny crooned. He leapt up and grabbed a metal bar that was hanging a few feet above his head, swinging on it for a few minutes before letting go and bowling into Lance. 

"Motherfucker," Lance scowled and shoved him into a fusebox. 

Johnny laughed, and I heard Weasel's voice drift over to us from the catwalk up above, 

"Please watch the microphones, Johnny! They're fragile--" he cut off abruptly, and I heard him laugh softly a moment later, talking to someone else in a low voice. I briefly considered being bewildered, but I figured that I had expended too much energy on being confused and disturbed today already. 

"Where're we going now?" I asked. 

"Outta this goddamned state, hopefully," Lance muttered while Jubilee said firmly, "We're goin' for dinner." 

"Jubes is fragile," Johnny teased, hopscotching over to her and pulling on one of her helter-skelter pigtails. 

"Villainous fiend!" Jubilee declared in a high voice with a giggle, and he whooped and dashed off. She hopped a few times, tugging one of her sea-green pumps off, and ran after him, brandishing it. 

I grinned ruefully, watching the flap of her yellow raincoat disappear through the door, and turned to face Lance. He was leaning against the wall, pushing one of the heavy stage curtains with his foot. He looked absolutely bored. 

Maybe you can go brood in public, Mr. Alvers? It'll help your rock star reputation... 

"Are we gonna make out now?" Lance asked. 

_Jackass_! 

I was about to retort angrily when I noticed a crooked little smile on his face. I blinked. 

Was he..._joking_? 

Okay, Scott, time to reevaluate the circumstances. 

Lance is an asshole. But the bus was fun. Lance is still an asshole. We _did_ make out in the lobby. And that was fun, too. And Lance is an asshole. Lance is the most ass-iest assholes I've ever met in my life. In fact, he's so much of an asshole...he's not? 

"Chicken-shit," Lance said, as he was fond to do. 

Okay, maybe he _was_ an asshole. 

But...in a jokingly asshole-ish way? 

"Jesus," I muttered. "I've got a _headache_." 

"Why don't use your scotch tape to--mmph?" Lance suggested. 

Mmph? For a minute, I actually tried to figure out what 'mmph' was supposed to mean, but then I realized that whatever he'd been trying to say was muffled anyways because we were kissing. 

"I'm tired," I said after we stopped, double-checking to make sure I had room to open my mouth this time. 

"I'm thinking of a dirty pick-up line," Lance said, "try to guess what it is." 

I glared at him, and he snickered. 

"I still don't understand this," I said carefully, dragging my toe on the ground. Hm. Dusty. Mary Poppins would break out her kamikaze umbrella of doom if she saw this. 

"Understand what?" Lance asked idly. 

I started to reply, but was interrupted by someone gasping something indistinguishable from the catwalk. I peered up, gawking. 

"Oh, that's probably just Weasel and Forge," Lance said, still watching me. 

"_What_?!" I asked, startled. 

"Y'know, fucking and all that," Lance said. 

Wasn't Forge _twenty-five_? 

"F--?!" I said intelligently. 

"Oh, sorry," Lance rolled his eyes and said with a grin, "'Making love.'" 

I stared at him. 

"I said they were fucking once, and Forge got mad at me," Lance explained as if there was nothing wrong. Nothing six-years-difference wrong. Nope. _Nothing_. 

"I--bu--they?" 

"Oh, it's fine," Lance said. "Weasel's mom knows. I think. Maybe. Well, we help cover it up since Weasel's mom is a fuckin' fuddy-duddy, anyways." 

"Fuddy-duddy?" I asked. 

Did this count as sodomy in Texas? 

"Yep," Lance said. Then he added, "We'd better leave now, before things get loud." 

Of course, handshakes count as sodomy in Texas, right? 

"L-loud," I repeated. 

I'd like to say that I prefer my handshakes same-sex, and that's that. 

"Yep," Lance said again, punched me in the shoulder, and headed out the door in his typical slouch. I watched him go, too shocked to follow him. 

There was a loud rattling sound from the catwalk and a rubber-soled shoe fell down and smacked me right in the head. 

There was a pause, then I heard someone squeak, 

"Sorry!" 

"Oh, _Jesus_," I mumbled, hyperventilating, and hurried after Lance, "Wait!!" 

I jogged, catching up to Lance in just a few seconds. He snickered at me when he saw me, and I just shook my head. 

"They--I can't believe--" 

"I can see that homosexual relationships fuckin' disturb you," Lance said dryly. 

"That's so funny," I said. "I laughed so hard that my throat closed up, and I died a small death." 

"That wasn't because of a fuckin' laugh," he informed me oh-so-helpfully, "it was bec--" 

"I don't do euphemism-talks until the second date," I said. 

"Hmm," Lance said and conjectured aloud, "I guess that makes my dirty pick-up line 'That wasn't because of a fuckin' laugh?'" 

"I guess that makes my answer to your dirty pick-up line a 'no,'" I replied with a smile. 

"I guess I'll have to stay with one-word pick-up lines then," he said. 

"Then they won't be lines," I mused. 

"You're just a little fucker, aren't you?" he said. 

"That one," I said, "was much worse than your other one." 

And he laughed. 

It startled me, because I hadn't expected him to laugh. It was like on top of the--non-Freudian, by the way--bus; I hadn't expected him to do anything but ridiculing. 

But he was laughing. 

With me and not at me? 

It was too much. I couldn't figure it out, and I couldn't just _ask_ him, right? 

Or could I? 

I couldn't. I really, really just couldn't. It'd be--_disastrous_! 

"Hey--" Lance started. 

"Are we _doing things_?" I blurted out. 

"Fucking?" he asked, confused and taken aback. 

"No, I mean, are we a _thing_?" I panicked. "I mean, I know _I_'m a thing and _you_'re a thing, but are we a--_thing_ together?" 

He stared at me. Then, he said slowly, "I don't really consider myself a fuckin' _thing_, y'know..." 

"You know what I mean," I said, hyperventilating for the umpteenth time today. If I hyperventilated any more, I'd have to go visit my cardiologist and then get myself an Iron Lung. 

"No, I really fuckin' don't," he said, quirking an eyebrow. 

"I--I mean, are we _thing_ing together?" I asked, blurring my words together. 

"Thinging? Did you say _thinging_?" he asked, staring at me. 

"I--oh, forget it," I muttered miserably. "Jackass." 

Lance was quiet. 

Finally, he said, "I don't know if we're a _thing_, but we're _stuff_." 

"We're stuff?" I asked. "You can't be _stuff_. You're either a thing or not." 

"Well, why _can't_ we be stuff?" Lance argued. "If I want to be fuckin' stuff, then I'm stuff." 

"Okay, then, what's _stuff_?" I asked. 

"Stuff is before thing," he said. 

"That's not even English," I said. 

"'Thinging' isn't exactly proper Oxford shit either, now is it?" he retorted. 

"So we're stuff," I said, "but not a thing?" 

"We're going into the thing," Lance said. "I think." 

"Maybe?" I asked. 

"Sort of?" 

"Kind of," I said. 

"So we're kind of stuff," Lance said. 

"Right before we're a sort of thing?" I suggested. 

We looked at each other and promptly started laughing. 

"Stuff...thing..." I gasped. 

"Like turkey," Lance agreed. 

"Stuffing a turkey?" I asked. 

"No, stuffing a turkey-thing," he corrected. 

"Right," I said. "Stuffing things." 

"We're stuffing?" Lance sounded offended. "I'm not _fuckin'_ stuffing." 

"I guess you are," I said. "If you're not thinging." 

Before I could think about being stuff, I heard Tabitha hollering at the top of her lungs. More precisely, she was hollering, 

"_Oh, my _fucking_ God, someone's kidnapped Lance!_" 

"I think they think we fuckin' eloped," Lance said. "Turdbuckets." 

"We can't elope," I said. "I don't elope with people who I'm stuff with." 

"I guess we'll have to upgrade to thing then," Lance said nonchalantly, and I looked over at him. He was looking straight forward as he walked, a slightly amused expression on his face. 

"Yeah," I said and felt a weird little happy bubble in my stomach that may or may not have been the hunger-beast striking. "I guess." 

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


~tbc~ 

  
  


  


  


(1) If anyone knows a secret escape route from Ohio, please tell me. Soon. I don't want to get caught within these state borders should Jerry Springer becomes senator, y'know. >.> That would be disastrous. *ph34rs* 


	5. Insert Object

Title: Readme.txt 

Part: 5/? 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: PG-13 

Pairings: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance; Weasel/Forge, Forge/Weasel 

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. 

Spoilers: Nada. 

Warnings: Slash (m/m relationship), AU (which means **Alternate Universe**, for those who don't know.) 

  


  


Notes: A little less humorous than the other chapters toward the end because there's an element of angst, but hey. It was bound to happen at one point or another >.> I like to think we're over that hump in the hill now. 

Hey, speaking of humps, you kids are going to love this chapter (; ...I think. ...I hope? ...Er, yes. Look to the chapter title for hints about what happens (; 

  


  


Additional Notes: My eternal thanks goes to my reviwers and supporters: Morwen O'Conner, N, Olhado, Lyo, Sheendo, BatE, Ishida Kat, MiracleChick, Mercuria, Absolute Alcohol, Edainme, sugar.coated, BackstageMark, Swythangel, Katherine, ShadowCreature, Kit, Katreon of Team Socket, Laureate, Omega Orange, BlackCat9, Melodie and last but not least, Doomkitty1. Thank you to all of you!! 

  


  


Additional-er Notes: The **Blind Fish Archive** is officially up and accepting submissions! Please check it out and submit your fic. The link is at www.geeky-pirate.net. 

  


  


Also, I would just like to say that Morwen O'Conner and I will personally devour the souls of anyone who uses the term "Scance," "Lancott," or any variation thereof. Squishing names together to signify a pairing was not cool when I wrote "Pietrance," and it still isn't. In fact, "Pietrance" was actually a joke. Maybe it would work if we had cool Japanese, multisyllabic names like Taichi and Yamato, but we don't. We have to play with characters whose names are Lance and Scott, and when people put their names together, it sounds like a new kind of foot fungus. 

  


And so we respectfully urge you to **please don't do it**. 

  


Thanks :D 

  


  


P.S. "Evietro" works, though. We're not sure why, but it just does. It might have to do with the fact that they have multisyllabic names, but it also has to do with the fact that we heart batE.   


  


Enjoy and Review!!!...please? 

  


  


  


  


-- 

  
  


"You're like a bad detective movie," Lance said amusedly. He was upside down on the couch of my hotel room, his legs thoughtfully taking up the entire back of it. With one hand, he held my hat--one of those detective hats, too; _tell_ me that's not classy--on his head, and with the other, he channel-surfed. 

I was sitting at a table directly behind the couch, drinking a glass of milk. 

Yes, milk. If I wanted to drink beer, I would've stayed in college for a lot longer--maybe go through and get another major. The culinary arts, maybe? 

"How're the grandkids?" Lance asked me, snickering. 

I propped my feet up on the back of the couch, ignoring that they were between Lance's, and said mildly, 

"They're fine. Betty's going through college right now--you know how it is." 

"Betty," he said. "Were you on a fuckin' acidtrip when you named her that one?" 

"I didn't name her," I protested. 

"What're _your_ kids' names, then?" he asked. "Lucy and Mike?" 

"Lucinda and Mikael," I said. 

"Your parenting skills suck," Lance said absently, flipping past a Spanish soap opera, a music video of two Japanese girls biking, and settling on porn. I coughed. 

"Could we...not watch that?" 

"Why?" he asked, his eyes not leaving the television screen. "Your pacemaker's gonna overload and fuckin' set your lungs on fire?" 

"That's graphic," I said. 

"That's good ol' fuckin' fashioned comedy," he replied with a grin. 

"Why are you in my room anyways?" I asked curiously. 

"Fucking," he said, still not paying attention to me. 

I rolled my eyes. Earlier, he had explained his theory to me that any question--within reasonable parameters--could be answered with 'fucking.' 

"How are you?" I asked experimentally. 

"Fucking," he said, shifting slightly and spinning my hat briefly on one finger before replacing it on his head. 

"The meaning of life?" 

"Fucking," he said as if there weren't any other answer possible. 

"The reason we exist in this univers--?" 

"Fuck-ing." He sat up slightly and grinned at me. I tried not to look at his stomach and settled for wondering if he did sit-ups often, because that looked fairly easy for him. 

Hmm. I think I'm going insane. 

"This milk really doesn't have the kick it ought to have," I said with distaste, glancing at the cup. 

Lance quirked an eyebrow and jerked his head forward, flinging my hat a pathetically short distance before lying down again. 

"Ouch," I said. "You threw that so hard at me my kneecaps actually imploded from the impact." 

"Blow me, Summers," he said carelessly. 

"Hmm," I said, mimicking him. 

"_Blow_ me, _Summers_--" he repeated. 

"Oh, blow me-e-e," came from the television. Lance was quiet. I started laughing. 

"This just fuckin' confirms my theory," he said. 

"Of life being fucking?" I asked, coughing and trying to hide my laughter. 

"Well, life's a fuckin' porno, apparently," he said dryly. "Close enough, hey?" 

"Close enough," I agreed. 

We sat in silence for a while, me looking anywhere but the television, and him staring fixedly--but with some boredom, I'm glad to say--at the screen. Finding nothing interesting on the walls except for a painting that may or may not have been a pear, I resolved for watching him instead. I made a mental note to add that to the list of crazy, inexcusably kitschy things that I've done so far this week: sat in a hotel room watching a rock star watch porn. Brilliant. I'm just full of good ideas. 

"Man," he said, sounding almost awed yet mostly snide, "I didn't know you could get your knees so fuckin' high." 

"With the right amount of rope, you can do anything," I said. I meant with pulleys. Lance just snickered. 

"Rope indeed. They're breakin' out the bondage gear now." 

"Bondage?" 

"Ha--this is bitchin'." 

"_What_? It's _porn_." 

"Quality entertainment, Summers. _Quality_." 

"You're not serious, are you?" 

"I dunno," he stretched a little here and made a small sound that seemed like a yawn, "it makes me laugh." 

I stared at him. Was this _sleepy_ Lance? 

I grinned. 

"Aw," I said. "Little Lancers need a nap?" 

"Fuck you," he said, lobbing the remote controller over at me. 

I fumbled with it, but managed to catch it. "That nearly fell in my milk, you know." 

"You and your fuckin' milk and your fuckin' cookies and your fuckin' Santa Claus," he said with a laugh. 

"I'll have you know," I said, "that my _fuckin'_ Santa Claus is the one who gave you your Power Ranger action figures when you were little." 

"Man, that shit you're drinkin' must be _drugged_," he replied, his voice low and almost drowsy. I wondered if that was what he sounded like when he made pillowtalk and suddenly had the absurd mental image of him singing garbage to some woman in a heart-shaped bed. 

Wow, Scott. I'm sure _that_ happens every night. 

"The shit I'm drinking is healthy," I said, smiling. "Something completely foreign to you, I'm sure." 

"Hmm," Lance said. 

I loosened my tie and scooted my chair back a little, lifting my legs from the back of the couch and stretching them across onto the other chair opposite of me under the table. I slumped down a little and clasped my hands on my stomach, half-closing my eyes and watching the flickering light of the T.V. on the walls. As pretty as porn can get, I guess. 

I was exhausted mentally from mulling over confusing Lance-subjects and physically from all the travel. Vaguely, I wondered if Jean was still awake, even though it was probably around three in the morning in New York presently. Oh, well. Her and Ray were probably at some loud concert, where she was going to pretend she liked the music and then make Ray take her ballroom dancing. I snickered to myself. 

Ray. With his mohawk. Ballroom dancing. 

Oh, I'm funny when I'm half-asleep. 

Yeah. Funny with a mohawk. 

  


  


  


  


I must've dozed off, but when I woke up, it was only starting to get light outside. I stretched, wincing at the stiffness in my arms and neck and hesitantly swung my feet down before getting up and walking groggily to the bedroom. The clock read 6:21--an hour before we were supposed to board the bus. I yawned and rubbed at my eyes. Terrific. 

After a nice, warm shower--water pressure is overrated, apparently, to hotels--I was ready for caffeine. My body was awake but my brain was still contemplating the most efficient way to go about counting the number of grains of sand on a beach. First priority: to get a decent cup of coffee. Of course, that may be more difficult that anticipated. 

I stumbled into the living-room area, looping my tie, and paused when I caught sight of Lance. Rather, Lance's knees. He was still hanging upside down. I wonder if all the blood rushing to his head has killed him yet? 

I cleared my throat. 

Nothing. 

"Um," I tried. 

"Um yourself," Lance replied sleepily. He groaned and sat up with difficulty, his hair tousled from sleeping like a bat. A vampire bat. 

A rock-star vampire bat? 

"Um," I repeated. He swung his legs down, narrowly missing my head, and switched off the television, which was exploring the fascinating topic of yoga when in the context of sex. 

"Guess what I learned while I slept," he said cheerfully. Apparently porn put him in a good mood. 

"What?" I asked, picking up my room key from where I'd left it on the table last night. 

"The fuckin' lotus position," he sat up the right way now, "allows easier access for th--" 

"I don't want to know," I interrupted hastily, and he snickered. 

"Too fuckin' much for your delicate mind, yeah?" he asked. 

"I'm beginning to think that you're bipolar," I replied. 

"It depends on the week." He stood, stretched--no, I did not watch his t-shirt slide up and rumple back down, thank you very much--before rubbing his eyes and muttering, 

"Shit." 

"Not a morning person?" I guessed. 

"This isn't morning," he informed me. "This is really, really, _really_ fuckin' late at night." 

"How _ever_ did you survive high school?" I mused aloud. 

"I didn't," Lance grinned at me. "I nearly failed--what--eight times?" 

"Am I allowed to put that in my article?" I joked. He gave me a strange look. 

"I'll see you on the bus, Summers," he said, yawning. 

"Where are you going?" I asked without thinking and cringed. Yeah, that's great. Sound like you really _are_ a stalker. 

"What kind of _journalistic_ question is that?" he asked, snickering. 

"Shut up," I said. 

"Well," he said, "might as well use your shower." 

"No water pressure," I warned. 

"Hmm," he said. "I'll see you on the bus, Summers." 

"You're dumping me for water pressure?" I asked, joking nervously. 

"No," he smirked. "I'm dumping you so I can masturbate in peace." 

And he left. I stared after him. 

"That was a joke," I thought out loud after a moment. "Right?" 

"_Summers_!" I heard Tabitha screech from outside my door, banging on it insistently. 

"Is Lance in there?!" 

"Uh, n--" I opened the door and staggered back when Tabitha nearly punched me in the face in an attempt to knock some more. "N-o, he's not." 

"Was he here last night?!" she peered about. 

"Uh, yes?" I blinked. 

"I found a fuckin' _suicide_ note taped on his door," she said, seething. "This'd better not be a goddamned prank!" 

I heard someone laughing down the hall and a loud, 

"_Bitchin'_." 

"I'm gonna kill you," Tabitha declared. 

"Not healthy for the band," Lance's voice said. "Not fuckin' healthy at all." 

"We'll dub you in," she shrieked, grabbing the customary feedback sheet and clipboard from the wall and darting out into the hall. Jubilee, who'd been directly behind her tottered back a step or two and blearily watched Tabitha tear down past an ice machine and Johnny, who was armed with a toothbrush and a mouth full of foam. 

"Huh," Jubilee said. 

"A _suicide_ note," I said. 

"He got real creative," she said, playing with her hair and smoothing down odd bits. "I think he mentioned something about fantasizing about being sliced to bits by being trapped inside a giant blender." 

"I saw something like that in a James Bond flick once," Johnny offered, wandering over. 

"Does Mr. Alvers, uh, do...this a lot?" I asked with some measure of disapproval. His idea of a joke was a _suicide_ note? 

"Mm-hmm," Jubilee grinned, "Tabitha should know better by now. I think she just freaks out for the hell of it, though." 

Sounds like fun. I fly into indescribable rage when I'm looking for a good time, too. "Oh." 

Johnny withdrew a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his orange cargo-shorts, reading from around his toothbrush, "'And I have no longer a reason for to keep me on this mortal plane.'" He giggled. 

"'No longer a reason'?" I repeated. I couldn't help but grin a little. 

"He spelled 'mortal' wrong," Jubilee observed, reading over Johnny's shoulder. 

"Did not," Lance said, walking by. Apparently, he had escaped Tabitha's unholy fury. "No 'e'?" 

"No 'e,' dumbass," Jubilee said, mussing his hair. He yawned. 

"Gonna take a shower," he mumbled and wandered off down the hall. 

"A suicide note," I said again, incredulous. 

"Quality entertainment," Johnny said with a laugh before handing said note to me and heading back to his own room. Didn't Lance say that when we were talking about porn? Jesus, there are so many things wrong with that sentence, the biggest problem being the word 'porn.' 

Jubilee shrugged when I looked at her in askance, so I just hung onto the note, folding it carefully and putting it in my jacket pocket. 

I grabbed my suitcase and headed down for the lobby. When I got there, Tabitha was sitting in a plush armchair. She seemed to be in high spirits. 

"Um, Ms. Smith," I said. 

"'morning, 'morning, Scottyboy," she said cheerfully. I stared at her. 

Okay, so _everyone_ was bipolar. 

"How are you?" I asked politely. 

"Fabulous," she said and gestured at a table off to the side; "Want some coffee, sweetheart?" 

"Thank you," I said and carefully set down my suitcase down on the sofa, thinking about how it was bizarre how every hotel we've been to so far has tried to emulate someone's living room. It was beginning to make me nervous--it was like the hotel was saying, 'Stay here. _Forever_.' 

Okay, Scott. Just drink some coffee, then maybe you'll feel less like a nasally whiny high school girl in a bad horror movie. 

I poured myself a cup and downed half of it before I realized it tasted like crap. 

"Blegh," I said. 

"You could scrub pans with this shit," Lance said. I turned to face him. He'd just come down, fresh from a shower from the looks of it. 

I made a sound and glared at the cup of coffee in my hand. 

"You could use it to clean bathtubs," I said with distaste. 

"Y'know, people always say that with bad coffee," he said. "I wonder what good coffee would be described as?" 

"Going with that analogy," I said, "good coffee would be setting a dryer on tumble." 

He eyed me. "You really are gay, aren't you?" 

"Shut up," I said. "And what do you think _you_ are?" 

He threw a grin at me that was no doubt supposed to be charming: "Alternative." 

"Hey, the Alternation," Johnny said, hopping in on one foot. "I love that radio station." 

He propped his other foot on Lance's knee and leaned down to tie the shoelaces. 

"Get off me, asshole," Lance said. 

"Suck it," Johnny replied brightly, finished tying his shoe and kicked Lance's shin. Lance rolled his eyes and shoved Johnny, who tumbled over an armchair and made a great show of yelling and gasping in pain. 

"Are you sure you didn't hurt him terribly?" I asked mildly. 

"Not fuckin' terribly, no," Lance replied offhandedly. 

"Where're the donuts?" I heard Johnny ask before trotting off to the complimentary breakfast area. 

"Complimentary everything," I thought out loud. 

"Fuck this complimentary shit," Lance muttered, peering into a styrofoam cup of his own. "I'd kill for a decent cup of coffee." 

"I would, too," I agreed emphatically. 

"Well," Lance tossed his sludge into a trashbin, "we _could_ go AWOL." 

He grinned at me. I carefully arched an eyebrow. 

"AWOL? In Wisconsin?" 

"You're right," he said after a moment's thought, "we'd be caught in a fuckin' second. Hey," he slapped me in the shoulder with the back of his hand, "we're going AWOL in Detroit, though." 

Sounds fun. 

I sighed and was about to finish drinking my coffee when I noticed something hiding behind one of the potted plants. Someone, that is. I frowned and turned to get a better look, but all I caught was a flash of blue and gray. 

Hmm. Very curious. 

Though, of course, I suppose nothing should surprise me anymore. 

  


  


  


  


"Are we there yet?" Johnny asked. 

"No." Forge drummed out a rhythm on the steering wheel. 

"Are we there yet?" Jubilee cupped her chin in her palms and watched the back of Forge's head. 

"No," Forge replied patiently. 

"Are we there yet now?" Johnny hopped from foot to foot. 

"No." 

"Now?" Jubilee played with her fringe necklace. 

"No." 

"Now?" Johnny tried to lick his own elbow. I wondered if anyone had told him that it was physically impossible. Then again, that's probably why he was trying it. 

"No." Forge started humming quietly to himself. 

"You're both idiots," Lance said, poking his head through the door in the partition. 

"We're bored," Jubilee explained very calmly. 

"Go be bored somewhere where I can't hear you," Lance replied. 

"Rock city Detroit?" Johnny asked hopefully, looking at Forge. 

"No," Forge said. 

"We've still got a couple of hours," I said mildly. 

"Hours," Johnny said with disgust. 

"Hey," Jubilee said, paused dramatically, then asked, "are we there yet?" 

"No," Forge said. 

"Are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet?" 

"C'mon, Summers," Lance said, rolling his eyes. 

"Okay," I said immediately and tried not to look at Forge and the Peanut Gallery. 

Six years. 

I wonder if he knows I know? 

It's not like I have a _big_ problem with it, I just don't feel comfortable when I know about other people's private lives. 

Other people's private lives involving six years difference. 

"Hey, Lance," Forge said pleasantly, "can I talk to Scott for a minute?" 

"No," Lance replied good-naturedly. 

"Later then," Forge said. 

"Forge, Forge, Forge," Johnny chirped. 

"Yes, yes, yes?" Forge reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror. 

"Are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet?" Jubilee and Johnny chimed. 

"No..." 

Lunatics, all of them. 

Lance closed the door firmly and flung himself into an amorphous beanbag chair. I watched him nervously. Last night seemed so far away. Mostly because we had left the hotel several dozen miles behind. 

"So," I said. "Um, I should--I need to ask you a few more questions." 

Lance quirked an eyebrow and spread his hands. 

"Uh," I fumbled with my notebook, "So--" 

"Actually," Lance said, "it's my turn, isn't it?" 

"Okay," I said, not bothering to keep track anymore. Too much energy. Too...much energy. 

Jesus, I needed a vacation. Or a raise. Maybe both? 

"Are we gonna fuck or what?" he asked. 

I stared at him. I was too far gone and I'd gotten too used to him to even be offended. 

"Okay," I said again. 

"Hmm," Lance said. "That's no fun." 

"No fun? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I asked, annoyed. 

I was beginning to feel less and less like a sacrificial virgin about to lose all innocence and more and more like a small rabbit caught in a hunting trap being poked at for fun. Cruel fun. Cruel, _spooky_ fun, because rabbits are generally creepy. 

"You didn't flip out or anythin'," Lance said, smirking. 

"Asshole," I muttered. 

"Is that gonna be in your article?" 

"Shut up," I said. 

"I'm hurt," he said. 

I straddled his lap without even thinking about what I was doing, and then we were kissing. It still confused me, but I placated my sense of decency for the time being with a friendly reminder that we were technically 'stuff.' A _very_ friendly reminder. In fact, you could say that Lance's hand on my ass also gave a friendly reminder. Hel-lo... 

There was a clattering sound from the back and I yelped, rolled off of him, and made a small squeaking sound when he simultaneously tried to do the same. And landed right back on top of me, of course. 

"Oops," he said unapologetically. 

"Asshole," I hissed. "Get off me." 

"Hey, you started it," he said, making himself comfortable. 

The hatch in the back opened to a no doubt disturbing scene of Lance lounging on top of me, pretending to have the time of his life. 

Bastard. 

"Hey, Rogue," he said cheerfully. 

Oh, _crap_. Rogue?! 

A shadow slanted us and I wanted to cry. Without moving, I could see a bit of fishnet out of the corner of my eye. I wonder if you can strangle someone with that stuff? 

"This is Scott," Lance continued, ruffling my hair. 

"Hate you," I muttered. 

"Now, where's my good journalist?" Lance snickered. "Is he crabby today? _Is_ he?" 

"Oh, shut up," I said. 

"He's _really_ crabby," he told Rogue. Jesus, she didn't even move. She was like a goddamned statue or something. Then again, most statues aren't obscenely frightening. 

A gargoyle, perhaps? 

Finally, I heard her walk over to the other sofa and sit down, then the sound of a magazine or a book open with the crinkling of pages. 

I shoved at Lance's shoulder. 

"Jesus, you're smothering me," I said, annoyed. 

"With love," he cackled and promptly didn't move. 

"_Hate_ you," I repeated with gusto. 

Lance slid off of me then and stood, asking graciously, 

"Could we use the back room, Rogue?" 

Rogue waved her hand flippantly without even looking up from her book. Lance grabbed my tie and yanked me with him through the hatch. 

"_You_--are a _jackass_," I said sharply as he closed and locked the back door. I readjusted my tie and thought mean things about him. 

"Hey," he said then, grinning crookedly and uncharacteristically, "I want you." 

You--? 

"Oh," I said in a small voice. 

I glanced around. How convenient--a bed in the corner. 

"Oh," I repeated, then reached up to undo my tie. 

Jesus. 

Why the hell not? 

  


  


  


  


"What're you doing?" 

"Having an after-sex smoke." A small stream of gray curled under my nose and I sneezed. 

"Well, stop it." 

"Blow me." 

"Already did." 

"Ha--clever." 

A rustle of bedsheets. 

"I thought people smoked for the rush, anyways." 

"We do." 

"Well...didn't you already get a rush?" 

"This is a different rush." 

Mildly, "Yes, this rush causes cancer." 

More rustling. 

"Ow! You kicked me!" 

"You pansy." 

"You _kicked_ me." 

"Do you want me to say sorry and kiss it better?" 

"Oh, shut up." 

Content sigh. Rustle. 

"...What the fuck're you doing?" 

"Reading an after-sex magazine." 

"...National Geographic?" 

"Look--the country of Indonesia has a bay right off of their--mmph?" 

Rustle. "Don't fuckin' read National Geographic right after I jellified your brains, Summers." 

Mildly, "I don't think 'jellified' is a word." (1) 

"Thinging." 

"I'm never going to hear the end of that, am I?" 

"Nope." 

I sighed, flung the magazine onto a chair, and turned over on my side so that I was facing Lance. He had gotten through half his cigarette and was now attempting to blow circles with the smoke. 

"I bet your insides look like black currant jam," I remarked. 

"Hmm," he said. "Yum?" 

"I don't think so," I said. 

He caught me with his arm and brought me close. I pillowed my chin on his chest and considered the fine lines of the indistinguishable tattoo on his opposite shoulder. Then I thought of something. 

"Hey," I said, "did you really mean that?" 

"What?" Lance asked, succeeding in blowing a quivering little ellipse. He scowled at it and batted it away when it drifted toward his jacket, which was hanging from a hook on the wall. Kind of like a kitten would bat at a ball of yarn. A Lance-kitten? A _rock star_ kitten? 

I just had a mental image of a cat with a mohawk smoking a bong. No more digression for me. 

"You said that I didn't know anything about you," I said, perturbed. 

"Hmm," he said lazily. "What about it?" He stretched a little and extinguished his cigarette stub on an ashtray on the nightstand just within an arm's reach. 

"Well, did you mean it?" Just _answer_ the question, _please_. 

"Yeah," he said. "I meant it." 

I lifted my chin a little so I could look at him better, and frowned, "What? But--I mean, I think I know a _little_ about you, since I've been asking you all these questions this week." 

"Well, no, you don't." 

"Why not?" I was beginning to get irritated. 

"Because," he said sleepily. "I lied to you." 

I stared at him. 

He--? 

Wha...but--? 

"Guh?" I said. 

"Eloquent, Summers," he said, amused. "Truly fuckin' eloquent." 

"About _what_?" I asked, disturbed. 

"Oh, everything," he said offhandedly. 

"_Everything_?!" I exclaimed, jerking away and staring at him. 

He blinked at me and pushed himself up on one elbow. 

"Well, yes," he said. 

"_Why_?!" 

"Calm down," he said. 

"Fuck off," I growled. 

He blinked again, then commented, "You're sexy when you're angry." 

"Shut up," I snapped. "Why the _hell_ did y--?! Your parents!" 

I pitched myself over him and rummaged around my jacket pockets, fishing out my notebook. I flipped through the pages and thrust the goddamned thing in his face, 

"Look! Y-you said that your parents were practically rich and your father died in a car accident and your mother in a fire! Are you saying that that's a lie?!" 

"Well, yes," he said again. "But--" 

"What about your high school!? Did you go to high school with Johnny!?" 

"Well, no," he said. "But--" 

I wanted to scream. "What about your inspiration? Your first music lesson? You never played the oboe, _did_ you!?" I accused, prodding him in the chest with one finger. 

"Well," he said, pretended to consider it, then said, "no." 

I buried my face in my hands. 

"You," I said, "are a...a..." 

"Motherfucker?" he supplied helpfully. 

"_Jerk-off_," I said. 

"Ouch," he said with a smile. 

I grumbled and leaned forward to kiss him. 

"No more lying," I warned, shaking a finger at him. 

"Sure," Lance said, grinning. 

"_Lance_." 

"_Scott_." 

I paused. I'd never heard him say my name before. I eyed him suspiciously. He quirked an eyebrow at me. 

"No more lying," I repeated quietly. 

He shifted and lay back down, watching the ceiling with a considering expression. 

"Are we a 'thing' now?" he asked, half-joking, I suspect. 

After a moment's thought, I rested my head against his chest again, and said slowly, 

"I think so." 

And then he looked down at me, smiled, and said, almost sweet and mostly nonchalant, 

"No more _fuckin'_ lying." 

  


  


  


  


Rock city Detroit--what Johnny referred to it as, that is--was a horrible, horrible place. Strictly in my opinion, that is. 

Apparently, Antisthenes was booked to play at several venues in the area--not all in Detroit, of course. That left me with some fortunate breathing room, since I had the excuse of investigating the Detroit rock scene. We weren't heading to Seattle later on, but they tell me that the Seattle rock scene was supposed to be more renown than the Detroit rock scene. 

_I_ don't know, to tell you the truth; I'm just hoping that if I keep adding 'rock scene' to things, it'll eventually stick. 

Or maybe not. 

After Antisthenes' first gig in Detroit, Lance decided that going AWOL was the perfect idea. Despite the fact that he had a major press conference to attend, that is. 

He showed up at my door all decked out in super-camo gear. I gawked at him. 

"Are you _crazy_?" I exclaimed. He rolled his eyes, pulled me out of my hotel room and dragged me down the hall and out the building. 

"Lanc--" 

"Keep your head down," he hissed and tossed me a pair of shades before donning some himself. I glanced at him and raised my eyebrows at his black leather jacket, reflective sunglasses, and low-brim hat. 

"Jesus, you look like a gunman," I remarked. 

"I thought you fuckin' reporters were _supposed_ to be good at being inconspicuous," he said. 

It's _journalists_, dammit. 

"What about your press conference?" I demanded. 

"Jubes an' Johnny know what to do," he said, waving it off. 

I stared at him, incredulous. "But--" 

"Hey," he said. "Shut up, Summers." 

I bristled. "I have a _first_ name, you know." 

"Huh," Lance said absently, "imagine that." 

Idiot. Didn't he understand the _point_ of having first names? It was useless arguing about it with him, though, since it would undoubtedly devolve into him telling me to "suck it." Very intelligent. 

"Where are we going?" I asked instead. 

"First date," he said. 

"_What_?" 

"Coffeehouse," he said. 

"I--" 

"Hey, your hair smells nice," he said, half-turning toward me. 

I stopped talking and swore inwardly when I felt my face flush. After a moment, I grumbled, 

"You're just trying to shut me up, aren't you?" 

"Well, yes," he grinned, "but it does. Coconut?" 

You and Tabitha both? "Ye-es." 

"Kinky." 

How?! "Oh." 

Lance snickered and brusquely entered a coffee shop whose banner had two p's instead of one and an 'e' tagged on the end. How quaint. 

"Here's your good coffee," he said. 

"We'll see," I replied. 

He quirked an eyebrow. "What, are you a fuckin' coffee aficionado or somethin'?" 

"I guess you could say that," I said. 

"You should start a fuckin' club," he said, squinting past his shades at the shelves of teabags and boxes of brew-at-home coffee that lined the walls. 

"I'm just picky," I said mildly. I was startled when he laughed. 

"Oh, you kill me," he said with a grin. 

Bipolar much, are we? 

I ordered a mocha frap and he settled for some hot chocolate without cream. Nice and simple. I reminded myself to pay attention next time and see if he took his coffee black. 

We didn't say anything for a while, then Lance spoke almost pensively, 

"There was this kid on the corner of our street. He'd fuckin' play the guitar and sing and shit. His name was Sid." 

He picked up a packet of sugar, ripped it open, and let it swirl into his hot chocolate. 

"He got one o'his kneecaps shattered in a drive-by, hey? Didn't have enough cash to pay for a--fuckin' operation or anythin' like that. So he sat on a corner. That's it." 

He drank a bit of his chocolate, and I thought about after-sex smokes and porn. Maybe I had gone insane. Damned tour bus; I would've never ridden in it if I had known that insanity was contagious. 

"I saw this guy--Sid--and his guitar was all scratched up and sometimes it went all outta tune, so he'd have to stop and crank the pegs some. But he was the best fuckin' guitarist in our neighborhood." Lance paused. Then said lightly, 

"I mean, before a motorcycle skidded into his block and made him eat his own spleen." 

Xavier? 

I tried some of my frap and grimaced. I should've gotten something hot, but I'm stupid like that. 

"They picked up his pieces," Lance continued, "with these fuckin' little Latex gloves or whatever, and they put them into these fuckin' little plastic bags. And then they just drove away. 'least they scrubbed down the sidewalk and all," he added. "It was all fucked up from tar or whatever it was." 

"Tar?" I asked and wished I hadn't. It didn't seem appropriate. 

Lance was wiping at his sunglasses with the back of his hand. "Yeah, some truck did a swipe a week before Sid bit it, I think. Spilled this shitty-ass goop all over. Anyways--" he made a face and pushed his hot chocolate away. 

"He died, and I figured _someone_ needed to play the guitar in the area." 

So that was how he got into music. I coughed and glanced around. I wasn't sure what to say. I eyed him furtively out of the corner of my eye, and watched him pick at the fringe of his jacketsleeve. 

"I had a gerbil," I blurted out finally. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He turned to look at me, grinning a little. 

"His name was Ferdinand and he was--uh, he was milk chocolate brown." I tried to suppress the overwhelming urge to duck under the table and hide. Of course, there was also the fact that Lance would probably make some obscene comment if I ducked under the table. About how I wanted to-- 

"And, um, one day, I accidentally left the cage door open," I said. "And...Ferdinand ran away and got slammed in a door." 

Lance had one hand flat on the table and the other curled around his cup of hot chocolate. He arched an eyebrow at me. 

"I never got another gerbil," I said, sounding a lot more pathetic than I should've. 

"But, um," I coughed. "I...I got a, uh, parakeet." 

Dammit, why did our deep and meaningful talks always turn out like this? 

"A parakeet," Lance said, as if he were mulling over something extremely philosophical. 

"Yes," I said solemnly. "Not a gerbil. I couldn't replace him." 

"Hmm," he said. 

"We had a little funeral for him," I added. "I buried him in a shoebox with one of my, uh--well," I smiled a little, almost embarrassed but not quite, "one of my socks." 

Lance laughed, looking surprised. "One of your fuckin' socks?" 

"It was clean," I said defensively. 

Lance was quiet, then asked, "Why'd you do a stupid thing like that?" 

I shrugged, "I wanted something of mine to go with him, I guess." 

Lance shrugged also and grinned a little, "You coulda used a marble or somethin'." 

"How cliché," I said grinning back. "I think a sock adds more flavor to it." 

"Oh, I'm sure it does," he snickered. "The maggots are probably thinking, 'Hmm, this gerbil filet tastes a little different than the others...'" 

I couldn't help but laugh. 

"That's _horrible_," I told him. 

"Am I ruining your idyllic childhood memories, Summers?" he asked. 

"I'd say so," I replied wryly. 

"Aww, want me to kiss it better?" he sneered with a grin. 

I gulped. 

"I don't know," I said. "Do you think you can?" 

"I think a little heartbreak might add spice," he replied and kissed me--a brief kiss, to tell you the truth. Almost disturbingly brief. I licked my lips. 

Then he sat back and watched me, as if he were waiting for something. 

"What?" I asked, fidgeting. Was I supposed to sprout wings and start shooting people with heart-shaped arrows now? 

"Your article--?" he began. 

"Oh, that," I said. "I have a few questions to ask you." 

He grinned at me, and four and a half hours later when we stepped out of the coffeehouse, I still hadn't written anything down on my notepad. I had learned some things about his parents and his childhood, though he steered clear of Sid once it was all said and done, but I still didn't know why he played angry music and joked around like he was the king of the world or any of those crazy things. And I still didn't know any secrets of the trade, about insiders swapping agents or the one epitomizing fact of the modern rock scene. 

However, I _did_ know that Lance Alvers, rock star extraordinaire, likes Kix and waffles in the morning, orange juice instead of apple, and his favorite color was red. 

Oh, and I also learned one very important thing: 

He _does_ take his coffee black. 

  


  


  


  


"Don't look now," I whispered, "but we're being followed." 

I'd been eyeing a certain purple babushka with suspicion for some time now. I was now becoming unnerved by it, partly because it seemed to be migrating closer and closer to us. In my head, I hummed the Jaws theme. 

"Hmm?" Lance had been busy littering with a gum wrapper. I imagined Jean pouncing on him and rubbing his nose in his own trash, yelling, 'Chauvinistic ecosystem-destroyer! Baby seals are dying because of you!' 

I hid a smile. Man, caffeine highs were fun. 

"There's as lady in a gray business suit and purple, uh, shawl," I said. "I think I saw her back in Wisconsin, too." 

"Oh, her," Lance said. 

'Oh, her'? "Wh--?" 

"Yeah, that's Raven Darkh--oh, sorry--_Mystique_," he said flippantly. "She stalks me." 

"You seem to handle that quite well," I said dryly. 

He shrugged. "She's harmless." 

"She's unsettling," I said nervously. "Does she follow you _everywhere_?" 

He grinned at me then and threw an arm around my shoulders. 

"Why?" he asked, drawling. "You afraid she'll catch us in the buff or somethin'?" 

"No," I said, annoyed. 

"Hmm," he said in a low voice and leaned over to kiss me on the neck. I glanced around apprehensively. 

"Stop it," I mumbled. "Someone might _see_ us." 

A certain psychotic someone who _really_ ought to have a restraining order on her, that is. 

He nipped at my ear and growled almost playfully; "What, are you chicken-shit?" 

Okay, forget I said 'playfully.' 

I spotted a photobooth further down and I slipped my hand into Lance's jacket pocket. 

_Sanctuary_. 

"Got spare change," he said vaguely, apparently having seen the booth as well. 

"Isn't spontaneity overrated?" I asked casually as we both walked a little faster. 

"Hell, no," he replied. 

"You thrive on spontaneity, then?" I teased. 

"The only fuckin' way to live, man," he said, grinning. "The _only_ way." 

"I beg to differ--" I began, but then Lance shoved me ungracefully into the photobooth before pressing against me. Hmm. 'Between a rock and a hard place,' I think, is how they describe situations like this. I think I was going to choose the hard place--_Jesus_. 

Okay, so the hard place chose me. 

I leaned back against the touchpad keyboard of the booth and Lance fell in a sprawl on the bench before leaning forward again. We clumsily fumbled around for a bit and I prayed I wouldn't break something. 

What would I tell them, anyways? 

'I'm sorry, but my assplate broke your photobooth.'? 

Yes, I'm sure that that would go over extremely well. 

"We probably shouldn't do anything here," I said. I was having difficulty breathing, and this time it wasn't because of hyperventilation. 

"Chicken-shit," Lance rasped. I tugged him forward by the hair and we kissed and didn't stop. Somewhere along the way, his shirt and my pants came off and ran away. Like the plate and the spoon? 

Jesus, my brain was completely scrambled. 

Suddenly, there was a clicking sound and bursts of light from behind me that blinded us both. At first, I thought of scary, X-Files-type things that involved aliens and probing, then the panicked paranoia subsided. Into Lance's lap, of course. Unfortunately, panicking and thinking of scary, X-Files-type things made me scream like a girl scout. 

I scowled. 

"The fuck?" Lance rubbed at his eyes and I mumbled, 

"I think I just had a stroke." 

I bent to pick up my pants, pulling them up as quickly as possible. Then I realized-- 

"Lance, the photob--" 

"Hey, Summers," he said, looking at a strip of photographs he had pulled from the dispenser next to the touchpad. "I've never seen this side of you before." 

Asshole. 

I sighed and ran my hand through my hair. "Shut up." 

"Especially not from this angle." 

"Shut _up_." 

"Hey, your article--" 

"_Shut up_!" 

Lance snickered and pulled his t-shirt on. Shrugging into his jacket, he said with mock-sweetness, 

"I'll keep these pictures close to me forever." 

Of all the nerve. 

"I think you're going to need them," I said pointedly and stepped out of the booth. "Since you're not going to be getting any help from _me_." 

Lance emerged from behind the booth's curtain, grinning. "Cheeky, Summers." 

"Lance--" 

"A total fuckin' about-face." 

"_Lance_." 

"You're takin' a major crack a--" 

"I'm going to take my notebook and shove it down your--!" 

"_Only_ your notebook?" Lance was smirking. 

I grinned then. "Oh, so you think you're good?" 

"I _know_ I'm good," he said, leering. 

"It was liking having a fish attached to my pelvis," I said pleasantly. 

"Well, you're the one who was enjoyin' it," he replied just as graciously. 

I chuckled at the sheer absurdity of it all. 

There was a small beeping sound from inside Lance's jacket before I could retort, and he pulled out his cell. 

"What?" he said. 

He paused, listening to the loud buzz that was his answer. 

"Hey, I got some pictures you might be interested in," he said then, very casual. 

I glared at him. _Jesus_. 

"Not funny, Lance," I muttered. He flashed a grin at me. 

"_Not_ funny," I repeated, louder. 

"Summers verifies that you'd absolutely get a fuckin' kick outta them." 

"No, I don't," I protested. 

"Hey, hey--put Jubes on," Lance cackled. 

"_No_!" I yelled. 

"Put us on _speakerphone_," he said. 

I made sure that he was only amusing himself by glowering at him. Convinced that he could win me with his charm, he curled his lips and mimed a growl and bite. I rolled my eyes and pretended I was Jean, effectively affecting an air that said, 'No, I'm really _not_ impressed. And this isn't for show. _Idiot_.' 

He mouthed, 'Fuck you,' and I raised my eyebrows. Sighing, he deliberately slumped his shoulders. 

"Gotta go, Johnny," he said. "The fuckin' ball an' chain's callin'." 

I tried not to laugh and settled for punching him in the shoulder instead. 

"Mr. Allerdyce?" I asked. 

"Yeah," he said. He smirked. "Heard that MTV threw a fuckin' fit." 

"You really oughtn't promise things that you have no intention of doing, you know," I said. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "Am I grounded?" 

"Screw off," I said. 

"The word, Summers," he said, grinning, "is 'fuck.'" 

"My bad," I said, smiling back, and amended: 

"Fuck off." 

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


~tbc~ 

  


  


  


(1) Actually, 'jellified' _is_ a word, according to Microsoft Word. I think we can chalk it up to freak accidents that Lance got that right (; 

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  



	6. Web Layout

Title: Readme.txt 

Part: 6/? 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: PG-13 

Pairings: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance; Weasel/Forge, Forge/Weasel 

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. 

Spoilers: Nada. 

Warnings: Slash (m/m relationship), AU (which means **Alternate Universe**, for those who don't know.) 

  


  


Notes: I have returned from Chicago with loads of notes! Well, not really. But some of Scott's experiences in the lovely Windy City are autobiographical. And...my sofabed tried to eat me. It was saggier than Agatha's boobies. Very frightening, yo. 

I was going to have them go to a Chinese restaurant but then I forgot the name of the place we ate at. It had something to do with the number three and the word 'happiness,' and no, it was not 'Happin3ss.' (; 

  


  


Additional Notes: A grateful thank you to all my lovely reviewers and supporters: Morwen O'Conner, N, Olhado, S, Lyo, sugar.coated, BatE, ShadowCreature, Pyromaniac, BackstageMark, Katherine, Laureate, Absolute Alcohol, Ouvalyrin, MiracleChick, Suzaka, Edainme, Doomkitty1, Ishida Kat, Imhotep Ardeth Bey, and last but definitely not least, Mercuria. *sob* I love you all. 

  


  


Additional-er Notes: How's about that power outage, huh? Suck ass. But you know what _doesn't_ suck ass? Besides cotton candy and Livewire? **The Blind Fish Archive**! You can find the link at www.geeky-pirate.net. 

Please check us out and submit your fics! We're nice--honest!   


  


Enjoy and Review!!!...please? 

  


  


  


  


-- 

"Mr. Summers." 

"M--Mr. Maximoff. How are you?" 

"Oh, fine, fine. You?" 

"Well, I'm--" 

"Yes, wonderful--_fantastic_. I'm calling about the article, Scottyboy." 

A cough. "Oh, it's going fine." 

"Great, great. So, are you getting all the little details and such?" 

"Yes. I've come up with an angle I think you'll be pleased with, too--see, the rock 'n' roll scene is very--" 

"Hate it." 

"--Ex-excuse me?" 

"Why don't you focus a little more on the band, Mr. Summers? Really _get in touch_ with the lead and all." 

Another cough. "Oh, don't worry. I--" 

"I mean--Scott, are you _really_ honing in on Mr. Alvers? Getting underneath it all and figuring out what makes him tick?" 

A muffled sound. "Ye-yes, I really am, Mr. Maximoff." 

"Are you really?" 

"I'm _really_ really." 

A dubious pause. "Well, fine. I'd like to remind you that this is a feature article, though." 

"Yes, of course." 

"Make sure to keep a close eye on our little lead singer, Mr. Summers." 

"Not so little--Mr.--Mr. Maximoff." 

"...What?" 

"...I've discovered that he has grand device--grand devices, you see. He's really gunning for the home run." 

"Well...alright. Are you feeling well, Scotty?" 

"Um, fine...fine, sir. Why?" 

"Just making sure you weren't coming down with something. There's been a mono epidemic around here lately..." 

A fit of coughing. "Well--I'm just...histamines." 

"Right. Well, I'll keep in touch, Mr. Summers." 

"You can--can count on--me, Mr. Maximoff." 

Click. 

... 

... 

... 

... 

"Run...epidemic..." 

  


  


  


  


"You are _horrible_," I said, clutching my sides. 

Lance quirked an eyebrow at me. "Me? What the fuck did _I_ do?" 

"You've _polluted_ my stream of consciousness," I said. Jesus, if I laughed any harder, I was going to collapse my stomach. 

He smirked at me. "It's not my fault that my tremendous sex appeal makes people think about...fucking." 

"Creative," I rasped. I needed a drink of water. 

"I'm havin' an off day," he said airily. He heaved himself onto the bed with some effort and flipped onto his back. 

"Is the door locked?" he asked. 

"Yes," I said. I fidgeted. 

We were on the tour bus, heading toward Chicago, the Windy City--a short drive from Jean's alma mater. She _loved_ Chicago and had gone to college a short distance away in Evanston, Illinois at Northwestern University. Fantastic school, really. Jean became addicted to strapless shoes because of it, though, so I tended to think about it as a dealer. Whenever she talks about it, her eyes glaze over and she forgets about anything academic. 

_Tell_ me that that doesn't smack of a druggie recounting the happy days of tripping. 

Chicago was pretty magnificent--a lot cleaner than New York City, though a lot smaller as well. The streets had extremely inventive names--Ohio Street, Illinois...Chicago, Delaware, and so on. I was _very_ impressed, as you can imagine. Only not. 

There was also a twelve-story mall that made Jubilee squeal in my ear as loudly as a small piglet might at the slaughterhouse. I still haven't completely recovered all of my hearing yet, but I can make out extremely loud noises. Like the sound of Lance singing very badly and off key into my ear whenever I'm asleep. I think he was trying to imitate a drunken sailor or something, because he was singing in the most _awful_ accent ever. _About_ drunken sailors, at any rate. 

On our way into downtown Chicago, we passed another location that Jubilee would no doubt visit later--a café done up to look like a rainforest. There were several large, brightly colored mushrooms surrounding the outside. And while I was wondering whether or not the mushrooms were a euphemism, I thought about Jean again. 

Circular train of thought, you see. 

The hotel we were staying at was called the Doubletree. For something that the Hilton advocated, it really wasn't all that posh; I got a lousy room with a small bathroom with no fan, what appeared to be a water-stained bed, and abstract paintings. Oh, and no microwave either. 

But I _did_ have a sofabed. Which was a safer bet than the bed, really; ever since I saw a documentary on PBS about stains and other strange things that are in hotel beds, I've been rather adverse to beds that weren't mine. 

Insert obligatory joke about beds that aren't mine and sleeping in them. 

Lance's room was directly down the hall from mine, which meant that whenever he was bored, he was going to inevitably come over to bother me. I wouldn't mind nearly as much except for the fact that I actually had an _article_ to write--something that he completely forgot from time to time. Another thing that was slightly inconvenient was that we were going to be staying in Chicago for three days. 

Venues abound, I guess. 

Around ten in the evening on the day we arrived in Chicago, Lance decided that he was already bored. How did I know? 

"Tell me what you're wearin'," Lance's voice said from outside my hotel room door, "and don't leave any details out. Fuckin' wool socks?" 

"How romantic," I said, opening the door. 

I could tell that Lance was a candle-lit dinner kind of guy. Of course, currently, he was leaning against the doorjamb with a box of Budlights. 

"Wanna get wasted?" he asked listlessly. 

"Not particularly," I said. I still had vivid memories of what happened the last time I drank with him. 

"Sightseeing?" he asked with a sneer, looking slightly mortified. 

"Sure," I said. 

"God," he said, "don't choose door number _two_, Wilma. The sucky prizes are always behind _door number two_." 

"Don't you want to see what Chicago's like at night?" I asked. 

"No," Lance said. 

"Too bad," I said, grabbing my coat and heading out. 

"Fuck you," he grumbled. He followed me nonetheless. 

That made the score two for me, and...who knows how many for Lance. 

Jesus, was he _sure_ he lied about being from a wealthy family? Because he sure acted like a spoiled, upper-class brat at times. 

We exited the hotel and turned left. The streetlamps were so bright that, for a minute, I thought we were in a disturbingly large indoor mall or something. 

"Their electricity bill must be obscene," I said. 

"The fuckin' 'Magnificent Mile,'" Lance said, unimpressed. He looked around. 

"I don't see what's so fuckin' _magnificent_," he said. 

"That's very nice of you," I said mildly. 

"There are a million better things I could be doin'," he said. 

"Like what?" I asked. 

"Like you," he said, grinning. 

"Sorry if I don't think being a 'thing' constitutes of solely sex," I said. 

"Do me a favor, Summers," he said, leaning back a little to eyeball a girl who was leaning out of her apartment window and yelling something at a Latino guy handcuffed to a lamppost. "Don't fuckin' use any words that have more than two syllables after seven." 

"Seven at night?" I asked, smiling a little. 

"In the morning, jackass," he said. 

"That's intelligent," I said. 

"Bite me," he grinned. "Anyways, what's this thing you're talkin' about? Not havin' sex?" 

"Not _only_ having sex," I corrected. 

"What the hell else do you wanna do?" Lance seemed slightly disgruntled. "Wanna talk about your _feel_-ings?" 

Well, Mr. Alvers. You're certainly acting like a normal heterosexual male tonight. Are you _sure_ you want to have sex with _me_? 

"It's not like I want us to get all after-school special-y," I said. 

"You're makin' up words again," he observed with a smirk. 

"It must be you," I said. 

"Fuck you," he laughed. 

"I already said no," I reminded him. 

He snorted and punched the crosswalk button a few times. A short, elderly lady eyed him with trepidation. I felt like apologizing. And shortening Lance's leash. 

Kinky? 

"Did you know," he said while we were waiting, "that if you walk outside the line thingies that you can't fuckin' sue if you get hit?" 

"Legal complications?" I asked. 

"It's the law's way of sayin', 'Screw you! We told you to stay in the box and you didn't,'" he said. 

"You're not going to talk about fighting 'The Man' now, are you?" I asked, slightly amused. 

"Hell, I'm fightin' The Man every time I sing a song," he snickered. 

"How politically correct of you," I said. 

"Or somethin'," he said. 

"So where do you want to go?" I asked. 

"Are there any one-hour motels around here?" Lance suggested. I punched him in the shoulder. 

"Why don't we go to the, uh, Hancock observatory?" I suggested. 

"The joke there with the name is so fuckin' obvious I'm not gonna even make it, Summers." 

What a one-track mind. 

"Well, fine. How about, uh...that is..." 

"Great, Summers. Fuckin' great." 

"Well, this is better than staying in, isn't it?" 

"Is not." 

It was like arguing about apple juice with a three-year-old. 

"...I'm not getting into this argument with you." 

"Chicken-shit." 

I made a face at him. "You're not being very creative, you know." 

"Whipplefuck?" 

"That's a little better." 

"Oh, so you're makin' me _work_ for it, hey?" He leered at me. 

I rolled my eyes. "Why is it that you make _everything_ sound dirty?" 

"What can I say? It's a gift." He pointed at a café simply labeled 'The Artist Café.' "Wanna go fuck up some kids down there?" 

"What?" I asked. 

"Y'know--artist kids with berets and shit?" 

"I think you're thinking of mimes," I said. 

He snorted. "If Jubes was here, she'd go for it." 

"Isn't art one of Ms. Lee's hobbies?" I asked. 

"Into art--yes," he said. "Into snobby artists--no." 

"Oh, so there's a difference?" I grinned. 

"Yeah," Lance said. "Like this one," he hopped up to walk on the little brick partition between the café and the sidewalk, "I think journalism's shit, right? But there's this reporter guy I'm into." 

_Journalist_. 

He grinned at me. 

"You're trying to be romantic," I said, unimpressed. 

"Do you need roses?" he asked with a sneer. 

"Yes," I said. "And I need you to stop calling me a reporter." 

"What?" Lance looked confused. "What the fuck do you mean?" 

"I'm not a reporter," I explained. "It's _journalist_." 

He stared at me. 

"I think your head's in the Bizarro world or somethin'," he said. 

I blinked at him. "Why?" 

"What's the fuckin' _difference_?" he asked. 

"There's a _huge_ difference," I said, affronted. 

"So, when people talk, do you see bright, blinky colors, too?" he asked, grinning. 

I glowered at him. "I'm not _joking_." 

"Did I fuckin' say that you were joking?" he jumped back down onto the sidewalk. 

No, but you're acting like I just told you that I believe in the Loch Ness monster. Whose existence, by the way, could be proven or disproven _if_ someone were willing to go in and do some _proper_ journalism. 

"You implied it," I said, sulking slightly. 

"Hey, is your neighbor Superman's fucked-up, evil twin?" he asked, chuckling. 

"Fuck you," I said. 

"Ooh, starting to get pissy?" He was smirking, the bastard. 

"You know, you could _try_ not to be an asshole every once in a while," I groused. 

"Yeah, but where's the fun in that?" he grinned. 

"Jesus," I muttered. 

He laughed at me and spontaneously linked arms with me. 

"You know what I've discovered, Summers?" he asked cheerfully. "You know what my fuckin' _philosophy_ of life is?" 

"What?" I asked, quirking an eyebrow. What was this, the Wizard of Oz? 

"You can't always ask yourself, 'What can I do for the world?', you see," he said very brightly. "The world sucks." 

"So what's the alternative?" I asked, grinning a little. 

"Well, you ask yourself, 'What the fuck do I want?' and then you do it," he said. 

"Just like that?" I couldn't help smiling. 

Well, that explains a lot of your personality quirks, Mr. Id. 

"Just like that," he said, snapping his fingers. He unlinked his arm from mine and haphazardly threw said arm around my shoulders. 

"It's the only way this fuckin' world makes sense," he explained. "Say I want some frozen yogurt. The only question I ask myself is, 'Banana or strawberry?'" 

I laughed a little and teased, "Are those euphemisms, Lance?" 

He paused, then grinned, "Hey, I guess they are." 

I groaned. "You're completely corrupting me, you know." 

"Bitchin'," Lance grinned. 

"Is that the _only_ thing you say?" I asked jokingly. 

He made a face of mock-concentration and tried: "Killer?" 

"Jesus," I sighed. 

"Man," he said, "this city isn't killer." 

I rolled my eyes. "You have the strangest terminology." 

"I didn't hear you complain about that last night," he said, grinning. 

I arched an eyebrow. "We didn't _do_ anything last night." 

"That's what _you_ think," he said, still grinning. 

I stared at him with horror and began beating him with my notebook. 

"I'm going to break your jaw," I threatened. 

"And who would _that_ benefit?" Lance asked, cackling. "Oh, right--_no one_!" 

"I can live without sex, you know," I growled. 

"Oh, baby," he moaned, then yelled, "_fucking_!" 

A few people looked at us in bewilderment. I punched him in the arm. 

"Idiot," I grumbled. 

He was still laughing. "Fuck-ing..." 

"What is something you will not be getting tonight," I suggested. Jesus, you've got to love Jeopardy. 

He got quiet very quickly. Then, with a liberal amount of wheedling: "Scot-t..." 

"I can see that in this relationship," I said mildly, "you will only be using my first name when you want something." 

"Or in bed," he said, leering. 

"Which is something you want," I said. 

"It's not the _only_ fuckin' thing I want," he said, looking offended. 

"Oh, really?" I grinned. "And what else do you want?" 

"A pony," he deadpanned. 

"Shut up," I laughed. 

"Of course," Lance said thoughtfully, a considering expression on his face, "I don't want to be in bed _with_ the pony..." 

"I think that you scare small children," I said. 

"I don't want to be in bed with small children, either," he said. 

"Of course not," I said. "That would be illegal." 

He paused, cringed, then started slowly, "But we _do_ want to fight The Man..." 

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," I groaned. "That's _terrible_." 

"It's _your_ fault," he said, smirking. 

"You're a bad, bad man," I said. 

"And you love me," he said, snickering. 

I glared at him. "Do not." 

"Do, too," he crowed. 

"Jesus, what are you _on_?" I asked. 

"What am I on or what am I _not_ on--" he said with a melodramatic flair, "_that_ is the goddamned question." 

"The only thing you're not on is the same plane of rationality as the rest of the world," I said. 

"Ouch," he grinned. "That really fuckin' wounded me." 

"And," I said, smiling, "I don't think Shakespeare wrote 'goddamned question.'" 

"Hey," he protested, "I don't have to take this fuckin' abuse, y'know!" 

"And yet you are," I grinned. 

Lance snorted. "Never pegged you for a sadist, Summers. Is this the part where I fuckin' beg for you to whip me more?" 

I choked. 

"I--" I began, then started hyperventilating. 

_Shit_, I was practically talking dirty with Lance! I guess I was really working to earn the title of 'Wallstreet slut,' wasn't I? 

_Jesus_. 

Lance eyed me, then remarked unhelpfully, "I was wondering how far we'd get before you became reprig-ified." 

"Reprig-ified," I repeated, momentarily forgetting my panic. "That's not really a word, is it?" 

"Thing--" Lance began very loudly, and I rolled my eyes and shushed him. 

"Don't start," I warned. 

"Or what?" he asked in a sugary sweet voice. "You'll don your dominatrix boots and fuckin' whale on me? 'cause, y'know, I wouldn't really mind all that fuckin' much..." 

"Shut up," I mumbled. I must've been three different shades of red. In the face, that is. Not where Lance was thinking...--Jesus! 

Oh, _Christ_, this was going to be haunting me for a while. 

"Don't do the whole S&M thing, yeah?" he asked casually. 

"No, I really don't," I said stiffly. 

"That's okay," he said, snickering. "We got chemistry." 

"That doesn't even make sense," I said, quirking an eyebrow. 

Which it didn't. But thank _God_ he wasn't talking about boots and whips and...Jesus, was _this_ why he got along with Rogue so well? 

After a moment of silence where Lance whistled something very badly and I shuffled my feet a little and tried not to think about Lance in black leather, I asked awkwardly, 

"So, are--are _you_ into the whole...you know?" 

"The whole shebang with the maiming?" he asked cheerfully. 

"Shebang with a capital 'S' and maiming with a capital 'M,' that is," he added, pointing at my notepad and motioning for me to write it down. I scowled at him and tucked the notepad into my jacket pocket. 

"Eh," he glanced around, winked at a random girl who was dressed all in electric blue and was walking her poodle, and shrugged. "Y'know, when I'm in the mood." 

"And how often are you in these moods?" I asked, unintentionally sounding like Dr. Phil. Oops. 

"I dunno, doc," he said with a smirk. "I get these _urges_..." 

"To go out and buy several Subway sandwiches at once then refrigerate them?" came a chipper voice from ahead of us. 

I looked up and saw Jubilee wading through the nighttime throng, shiploads of shopping bags in tow. 

Wow, she got busy really quickly, didn't she? 

She grinned at us as she fell in step; "Man, have you gone shopping, guys? Crazy-wild, I'm tellin' you--eighty fucking bucks for this pair of jeans." 

Lance quirked an eyebrow at her. "Not used to the wealth yet, Jubes?" 

"I'll never," Jubilee said, sniffing. "They're way snazzy, though, yes?" 

She beamed and half-pulled a pair of showy jeans out of one bag. 

"Snazzy-spiffy," Lance agreed easily. 

I remembered reading about the nearest mall--Water Tower Place--in a tourist brochure I had requested. --And _yes_, I requested some brochures. It's best to be informed, you know, about the cities you visit. 

"Don't they close at nine?" I asked. 

"Oh, yeah," Jubilee said brightly. "Got lost in a horse carriage for thirty-five bucks, baby." 

I remembered reading about that, too. "It's only half an hour for thirty-five." 

Lance snorted from beside me and muttered into my ear, "Ain't you a wealth of knowledge tonight, Summers?" 

"I know," Jubilee answered with a sly grin. "Then I got lost in the coach driver's pants." 

Hel-lo, back up; I _didn't_ need to know that. 

"You definitely didn't," Lance said almost defiantly. 

"Bluff!" Jubilee agreed with delight, then awkwardly rummaged in her coat, her shopping bags hanging from both elbows by the handles. 

"I drew some wicked pictures of Buckingham whatsits. Lemme find them..." she explained. 

"It's like a story problem," Lance said to me; "Mary Poppins is to her carpetbag as Jubes is to her raincoat." 

It was Tuesday of the second week and I'd heard more about Mary Poppins than in my entire childhood. 

"She keeps a sketchbook in there?" I asked. 

"Yep!" Jubilee said. 

"Yep," Lance stage-whispered. 

"And charcoal," she added with delight. 

"And _charcoal_," Lance repeated, whispering loudly in my ear. 

Jubilee snorted and smacked him on the head, saying airily, "Cork it, wiseass." 

Lance snickered and subsided obediently into silence, though he still shot her sideways looks of amusement every so often. As Jubilee was flipping through her sketchbook to find the picture she wanted to show us, she asked flippantly, 

"So, have you two slept together yet?" 

"Yep," Lance said at the same time I exclaimed, "_No_!" 

_Bastard_. 

She found the picture she'd been looking for and handed her sketchbook to Lance. 

"Now you see why we usually don't let reporters interview him," she said to me with a smile. I eyed her orange lipstick and asked with some puzzlement, 

"O-h?" 

"I think we need to get him neutered," she laughed. 

Wait--_what_? 

"Wait, so--?" 

"What?" Jubilee blinked, then hastened to reassure me, "Oh, no. I mean, it hasn't happened before, but I figured it'd happen eventually. If only to fuck with their heads, y'know." 

But, he wouldn't--...oh, _yes_ he would. But we had a _thing_, right? So it was _different_. 

Wasn't it? 

"Anyways," Jubilee continued, oblivious to my inner turmoil. Which was all her fault. _All_ of it. "I gotta jet. I bought, like, five pairs of shoes, so..." 

"Builds up the muscles," Lance quipped. "You got, what, ten shoes floatin' 'round in there?" here, he handed back her sketchbook, commenting, "Way better than the Madison Square one. I like it." 

"That's what I thought," Jubilee agreed. "Less sloppy, I think. Check you boys later, 'kay?" 

"'later," Lance replied easily. 

"Uh--good night," I said, almost missing her departure. 

Lance stretched a little--conveniently sliding his arm around my waist and attempting to sneak a hand up my shirt--and glanced at his watch when I batted his hand away. 

"Fuck, I'm hungry," he said. 

I remembered that he had skipped dinner in favor of learning how to play the harmonica. He could now play the Kraft macaroni and cheese commercial with ease. An understandably remarkable achievement, I'm sure. 

"It's nearly eleven," I reminded him. 

Lance quirked an eyebrow. "Are you sayin' that you don't think anyplace is open at eleven in _Chicago_?" 

"No place good, maybe," I said. 

"Hey, let's find some real fuckin' Chicago-style pizza," he said. He didn't sound too enthusiastic, but I thought that maybe it was...Hell, I don't know what it was because. Because the planets weren't aligned correctly, perhaps? 

"Uh, okay," I said. 

I was still bothered by what Jubilee had said, but was too woozy from the busride over and the disturbingly bright streelights to bring it up. I was beginning to think that the back of the bus was where all the fumes went. Maybe the bus' exhaust system needed to be checked out? Because I don't know about Lance, but after three hours in there, I was ready to call any speckled, fuchsia, fungal thing by the name of my Aunt Marge. 

"Hey, look at this," Lance said then. 

I glanced up and looked at the small, dark doorway he was gesturing at. A placard above it read 'Pizano's Pizza & Pasta.' 

"Looks okay," I said. I felt a little queasy about possible sanitation issues, though, and resolved to start carrying around a bottle of Purell with me wherever I went. 

Just in case, of course. 

We went in, sat down and ordered a pizza and some garlic bread. Not too bad a value--twenty bucks, and that's with the obscenely inflated sales tax. While we were waiting, Lance ordered a Molson and flipped through the jukebox. 

I sat and watched him and wondered how many beers it took to get him drunk. Then I wondered if he was a happy drunk or a grumpy drunk. Of course, my conclusion was that Lance was perpetually drunk, so it wouldn't make much of a difference whether he drank fifty beers or not. Except, maybe, his coordination got worse. 

Which didn't sound all too bad. If you're into drunken, misaimed groping, that is. 

"Huh," he said, catching my attention. "They got the Backstreet Boys in here." 

I made a face. "No kidding." 

"Why the fuck is there the Backstreet Boys in a fuckin' jukebox?" he pondered aloud. 

"To cater to everyone's tastes, I guess," I suggested. 

He arched an eyebrow and replied in a mild voice that made me eye him with suspicion, "I bet everyone in here hates the fuckin' Backstreet Boys." 

"Prob-ably," I said. 

He promptly fished a wad of bills out of his back pocket, extracted one, and fed it into the jukebox. The gentle, soothing tones of oil-slicked teenager with fake tattoos and cheating girlfriends filled the bar-slash-restaurant. All chatter stopped. 

_Jesus_, I was too tired to think about the implications of that. 

Lance strolled back to our table, sat down, and kicked his feet up. 

"How soon do you think," he said nonchalantly, "until someone--?" 

"Hey," a guy with a braided beard and ripped t-shirt loomed over our table and blocked my hazy view of the saltshaker. I'd been busy counting the grains of salt in it, too. 

"What the fuck do you think you're doin'?" 

"Starring in a fucked-up Western, I guess," Lance replied. He didn't seem too worried. I wish I could say the same for me. 

I snuck a look at the intruder who was casting the scary shadow on the table. He looked like a Norseman who'd sailed his ship into the wrong port, wandered haphazardly into a KISS concert (according to his t-shirt), stole some guileless biker's hog, and rode off with a mountaineer's pair of shades. 

Jesus, what an image. 

Was KISS even together anymore? I think I remember hearing Ray lament about them splitting up or something. 

"If you're gonna play somethin' on the jukebox, don't play some pussy-assed shit like this," the guy continued. 

"Wow," I couldn't help but say. "Pussy _and_ ass?" 

I tried to ignore that I'd just said 'pussy,' and tried even harder to ignore that I'd just tried to make a quip to a KISS-loving Norseman. 

"I think so," Lance said to me, smirking, then addressed the Norseman: "Bad night?" 

"Fuck off," the Norseman rumbled. 

"Then this song fits perfectly," Lance said graciously, gesturing toward the jukebox with his Molson. His Molson that the Norseman promptly knocked away, that is. 

"Ouch," Lance said. "That was a buck fifty." 

"Every bad movie that involves a barfight starts like this," I babbled nervously. "Why don't we all be friends and, uh, read the--the sports articles on the walls?" 

There were several framed newspaper articles. They seemed to all be very boring. At least, to me. Then again, I've been told that no one is actually _interested_ in the things I'm interested in. 

"Fuck off," the Norseman repeated and seemed to kind of glow with some sort of funky anger-vibe. I rubbed my eyes and wondered if I had fallen asleep at some point without my knowing. 

"Why don'tcha feed the nice jukebox some money and play some other songs if you don't like--this shit?" Lance suggested. 

I grinned. He'd probably been trying to mentally name the song that'd been playing, but gave up because it wasn't worth it. And probably because he hated it, too. Which begs the question: How far _was_ Lance willing to go just to piss some people off? 

"I think you need to get the fuck outta here before I start cracking things," the Norseman may or may not have said. 

I was beginning to lose my hearing. Jesus--all I could hear was the despicable _whine_ coming from the jukebox. 

I apologize, Antisthenes. I think that your music is actually _music_ compared to this. 

"Cracking," Lance repeated. "Like jokes?" 

"Oh, Jesus," I muttered. That _so_ did not make things any better. 

And, to prove my point, the nice Norseman broke our table, banged my forehead against said table in the process, and started breaking things. As some sort of sick consolation, I think I saw Lance on the Norseman's back, trying to chokehold him. However, the consolation wasn't much, because I then promptly passed out. 

To the sweet sound of the Backstreet Boys serenading me, at that. 

Jesus, I hate the world. 

  


  


  


  


I awoke face-to-face with a small Buddha. And no, that's not a euphemism. 

"Hello," the little porcelain Buddha said to me, smiling in a creepy fashion. I was reminded of Xavier. 

"Nngh?" I said coherently. 

The Buddha had a shirt painted on that read "Eat at Jo (Ling)'s." I stared at it. 

"Jo's?" I mumbled, confused. Vaguely, I wondered if the Buddha had gotten slaphappy and knocked me around a bit or something. My head was _killing_ me. 

"Jubes got at a novelty shop," Lance's disembodied voice told me as the tiny Buddha started doing the Snoopy dance across my chest. I watched it blearily. 

"Oh." Don't care. 

"It wuvs you," Lance cackled. The Buddha promptly mooned me. 

"Babytalk doesn't suit you," I slurred. I tried to sit up, but winced and lay back down, moaning. 

"Advil?" The Buddha offered me a small paper cup with two pills inside. 

"Supposed to take only one," I recalled as I downed them both and swallowed them dry with a grimace. 

"Fuckin' prude," Lance said almost fondly. "I bet you read every nutrition facts label on every fuckin' box, yeah?" 

"Just about," I sighed and reached up to rub at my temples. 

Lance's head hovered over me, and I quirked an eyebrow with effort. He had a small cut on his forehead and was grinning with some difficulty. 

"Bruises?" I asked. 

"Eh, flesh wounds," he said. 

"I'm surprised you're not bleeding more," I said. 

"This cut was bleeding lots," he said, gesturing toward his forehead. 

"No stitches, though," I observed. 

"I used some of that fuckin' liquid shit," he said. 

"You're talking about the bandage liquid shit, right?" I asked, joking weakly. 

"I'd better be," he said, smirking. 

I groaned and closed my eyes. "Jesus. I'm never going anywhere with you ever again." 

"I'm a fuckin' menace to society," he said cheerfully. 

"At least you're not in denial over it," I said. 

"Denial nothin'," he said. 

I batted at the Buddha, who was grinding against my chest now, and he snickered. 

"What time is it?" I asked. 

"Seven or so," he said. 

"In the morning," I said, just to be sure. 

"In the morning," he confirmed, "on the thirtieth of June in the year twenty-one twenty-one." 

"Shut up," I said. 

"I can't believe you fuckin' passed out, Summers," he said, sitting down on the edge of my bed. Rather enthusiastically sitting down--which meant that there was a lot of seasickness-inducing motions. I furrowed my brow and concentrated on not breathing. 

"What happened, anyways?" I asked once I was sure that I wasn't going to vomit up an important part of my digestive tract. 

"You passed out like a girlscout," he informed me very helpfully, "and then we had a massive orgy behind the bar with your unconscious body." 

"Ha-ha," I said, not amused. 

Lance leaned against the headboard of the bed, now sitting next to me, and made the Buddha do a jig on my forehead. "We scuffed around a bit and the fuckin' bartender threw us out." 

"How big was the bartender?" I asked groggily. I had a mental image of an even larger Norseman and snorted. What was this, flight of the Vikings?--...wait. That didn't sound right. 

Jesus, I just don't work well under stress and pain. 

"I don't know," Lance said wonderingly. "He wasn't fuckin' huge or anything, but I think he was popping steroids or some shit." 

"Wonderful," I mumbled, a little resentful for feeling like crap. "I can just see that our society has degenerated to the point where the macho jerk-offs beat up on other macho jerk-offs so that the larger, _capitalist_, macho jerk-offs have to come in and promptly fence off territory using liberal doses of unnecessarily libertine force." 

Lance stared at me. 

"Fuck," he said. "Did you practice that?" 

"You know," I grinned, "my friend Jean said the same thing." 

"Huh," he said. "So did you?" 

"Yes," I said. 

He laughed. "Are you serious?" 

"Yes," I said. "I really am." 

"You're really somethin', Summers," he said, shaking his head. 

"All the world's a stage," I quoted. 

"You're not allowed to medicate yourself anymore," he said, grinning at me. 

I scowled. "It's not the medication, asshole." 

"And now you're becoming surly," Lance said. 

"Am not," I said. 

"Are, too," he said. 

I tried to kick him, but I missed. The Buddha cackled at me and pretended to do a cheer. I glowered at it. 

"I'm confiscating that from you," I said. 

"No," Lance said, sounding a lot more horrified than he reasonably should. "Jubes _gave_ him to me." 

"Have you slept yet?" I asked curiously. 

"No," he said, looking slightly dumbfounded. "I watched TV, though." 

I sat up just enough to see the TV screen at the foot of the bed. It was a rerun of Letterman, thank God, and not porn. 

"Your room?" I guessed. I lay back down. 

"Hmm," he said, and I took it to be an affirmative. 

He had his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the knees, and the Buddha was now perched rather benignly on them. I stared at it and willed it to fall. It didn't. 

However, it _did_ seem to be praying or something, so I figured I'd leave it alone. As long as Lance didn't make it do strange sexual-harassment-type things to my chest anymore. 

"That thing is spooky," I said. 

"Hmm-mm-mm," Lance said. I glanced up at him. He looked rather sleepy. 

It was kind of cute. 

I wondered if Lance liked to hold hands or if he scoffed at things like that and went to ride his motorcycle and eat beef jerky instead. I'd seen a documentary about how they made beef jerky, and so drowsily resolved to never kiss Lance ever again if he ate beef jerky. Just to make sure, I asked him, 

"Do you eat beef jerky?" 

"Hmm?" he said. 

"Beef jerky. Do you eat it?" I insisted. 

"Uh," he said in a rather spacey voice. "You're not a fuckin'...what's it...vegetarian, are you?" 

He looked like he was about to fall asleep. 

"No," I said. "I was just wondering." 

There was a brief pause where I wondered whether or not he had indeed passed out on me, then he answered sleepily, 

"Nah, I don't eat that shit." 

Reassured that I could kiss him and not immediately feel the need to brush my teeth afterwards, I snuggled down into the pillow and attempted to ignore my headache. 

"Jesus," I mumbled. I was disturbingly awake even with the uncomfortable throbbing in the back of my head. "I think I'm concussed." 

"Don't fall asleep," Lance warned slowly, even as he was obviously doing so. "Or...y'know--do it if you wanna." 

I stared at the ceiling and tried not to say something along the lines of, 'Well, _that_'s good advice.' After I felt myself beginning to doze off a little, I said comfortably, 

"Hey, Lance." 

A pause. I heard applause from the television and a quieter murmur as the interview began. 

"What?" Lance mumbled. 

"Don't you have an autographing session at nine?" 

I felt him slump a little so that his head was resting on my shoulder. 

"Sure," he slurred, his voice in my ear. 

"Huh," I said. 

He didn't reply, and I closed my eyes. Letterman said something clever and the studio audience giggled. What they were talking about, who knows. 

I fell asleep wondering if Tabitha knew who they were interviewing and dreamt that she came to bang on the door. 

"Hi, Ms. Smith," I said in my dream. 

"Summers, stop fucking Lance and tell him to get down here," she yelled through the door. 

She seemed awfully pissed for a figment of my imagination. 

"Hmm," I said, amusing myself as I noticed that I was mimicking Lance. "That's quite alright. 

Jesus--I really _am_ funny when I'm half-asleep. 

Or something. 

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


~tbc~ 


	7. Select All

Title: Readme.txt 

Part: 7/? 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: PG-13 

Pairings: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance; Weasel/Forge, Forge/Weasel 

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. However, Sadie and Bryan _are_ mine. Which is presumably a good thing (; 

Spoilers: Nada. 

Warnings: Slash (m/m relationship), AU (which means **Alternate Universe**, for those who don't know.) 

  


  


Notes: More Weasel/Forge, because I think I've developed more than a mild obsession with Weasel/Forge. I think it's safe to say that once "Readme.txt" is over, I'm going to have to write a Weasel/Forge fic that involves the rise of Antisthenes. Or something? 

Oh, and Sadie and Bryan get a cameo. Just because. :D 

  


  


Additional Notes: Hugs, kisses, and other gestures of affection (that may or may not be construed as sexual harassment) go out to my reviewers and supporters: Morwen O'Conner, BatE, Lyo, Olhado, Sheena, sugar.coated, N, S, Flick-chan, Pyromaniac, Katreon of Team Socket, Ouvalyrin, Imhotep Ardeth Bey, Katherine, MiracleChick, Doomkitty1, Edainme, LB, Absolute Alcohol, Ishida Kat, and last but not least, Laureate. Thank you all so much!! 

  


  


Additional-er Notes: Go check out **The Blind Fish Archiv**! It's oodles of fun, and we're always looking for submissions! The link is under the squeaky-spooky skeleton at www.geeky-pirate.net.   


  


Enjoy and Review!!!...please? 

  


  


  


  


-- 

"Good morning, everyone," Lance said cheerfully. 

"It's four in the afternoon," Johnny said. 

"Good morning," Forge said. Apparently, he'd decided to humor Lance. He also seemed irrepressibly chipper. 

"If you don't tone that down," Jubilee said in warning to Forge, "I'm gonna start humming 'Pop Goes the Weasel' again." 

Forge shut up and studiously attempted to look neutral. He ruined it by grinning at me and asking, "How are you, Mr. Summers?" 

"Fabulous," I said. "I think I broke my neck." 

"Man, I can't _believe_ you got into a bar fight without me!" Johnny said, looking especially pained. 

"It was a very short bar fight," I told him in consolation. 

"Short and brutal," Lance said. "I fuckin' kicked the guy's ass." 

"You came, you saw, you brawled, huh?" Jubilee asked with amusement. 

That was putting it rather nicely. Quaint little near-rhyme, too. 

We were currently sitting around in the bus, waiting for 'go time.' The plan was to sign autographs before the concert, since Lance had been a no-show this morning. The venue Antisthenes was playing at was near the Chinatown district, too, so it wouldn't take too long. Permitted, of course, that we didn't get lost. It wasn't too big a concern to me, since I figured that Forge would never get lost. 

Unless someone mentioned Weasel, that is. 

Speaking of the jailbait mechanic himself, Weasel clambered rather unexpectedly into the tourbus and smiled so brightly that the ghost of last night's migraine came back to haunt me. This morning's migraine, I mean. 

Jesus, these two weeks were really messing with my biological clock. 

"Oh--hey, everyone," he said. "Mr. Summers," here he gave me my very own, special, six-years-difference handshake, "how are you?" 

"Pretty spectacular," I said. 

He sat down on the couch next to Forge and just beamed aimlessly and cheerfully about. 

"Hey, aren't you supposed to be--?" Johnny started and Weasel grinned, reassuring him, 

"Oh, don't worry about that. Lanie and I got all the prepping done last night so that we could check out the town this morning." 

"Oooh," Jubilee said. "Did you shop?" 

"No, but we did go on a carriage ride," Weasel said. He grinned a little and looked up at Forge, who had a sappy little smile on his face. I hyperventilated quietly and chose not to comment. 

"Now, do they narrate on those rides or something?" Lance asked curiously. "Y'know, like, 'That park there's where mah horse shitted last night,' and crap like that?" 

"No, not really," Weasel said wonderingly. "That would be interesting, though." 

"No, it'd be horseshit," Johnny giggled. 

Weasel smiled and inconspicuously cuddled with a contented look on his face. Forge just rested his arm around Weasel's shoulders, and the two of them began talking quietly in earnest. I looked at Lance. He raised his eyebrows at me. 

I tried to telepathically communicate the word 'Lolita?' but was unsuccessful. 

"Say, Scott," Forge said suddenly. "Join me and Weasel in the back for a second, would you?" 

Backroom what? 

Johnny wolf-whistled and crowed, "The deal-makin' room!" 

"Um," I said. Forge smiled benignly at me. 

Rats. No way out of this one. 

"Sure," I said nervously. I glanced at Lance for help, and he just snickered at me. 

Well, _you_'re lots of help, Mr. Alvers. Remind me to jot down that you're a pathological liar. I'd _love_ to include that in my article. 

Forge herded me--and I use the word 'herded' in the most pleasant way possible, really--into the backroom and grinned a little too reassuringly at me. Weasel was right behind him and clicked the door shut to the sound of Jubilee saying incredulously, 

"Hey, wait, why aren't _I_ invited--!?" 

"Mr. Summers," Weasel said in the kind of way that vets did before they told some little kid that their dog had died. 

I sat down in a butterfly chair and tried very hard not to feel like I was being interrogated. 

"Um--uh, yes?" I asked apprehensively. 

"Well," Forge said very calmly, "Weasel and I just wanted to talk to you about--" 

"We're not making you _uncomfortable_, are we?" Weasel blurted out earnestly. His already large almond-colored eyes were practically the size of turntables from anxiety. 

Jesus, this was the most mortifying conversation in my entire life. 

"Uh--that is, no! No, I'm--fine," I said. 

"Because, you know, we can--I don't know--adopt a non-PDA policy while you're here," Weasel fretted. "If it'd make you--you know--more comfortable." 

"No, no, you don't have to do that," I hastened to reassure him. 

"Are you sure?" Forge asked, a lot more composed than his younger counterpart. Six-years-younger counterpart, that is. 

"I'm sure, really," I said. 

Was this what happened when you got three disturbingly polite people in the same room and asked them to converse about private things? Because I was beginning to lose faith in etiquette. 

"It's legal," Weasel said very solemnly. 

_Barely_. "I--know, I mean--I'm not really _bothered_ by...you know." 

Weasel did a little nervous dance on his toes, then subsided and settled for playing with a small stress ball that had been on the nightstand. I grinned a little. He was actually very cute when he was distressed. 

Six-years-difference cute. 

"So you don't have a problem with our being a couple," Forge said, just as serious as Weasel had been. Only, he pulled it off better, because Weasel had been just a little too bubbly when he said it. Of course, I was beginning to suspect that Weasel was _always_ bubbly. Like carbonated drinks. 

Six-years-difference, _nonalcoholic_ carbonated drinks. 

"No, I don't," I said. "You look good together." 

And they did. Honest. 

Six-years-difference good. 

"Are you sure?" Weasel asked, looking very flustered. "I mean--thank you--that is--about you know, are you--are you--?" 

I blinked. 

"Are you _sure_ you're alright with it?" Forge translated. Weasel gave up talking and just waved his hands a little, then pulled his cell phone out and played with it. And no, I don't mean--Jesus, I really _was_ spending too much time with Lance lately. 

"Yes, I'm positive," I said. "I mean--it's a little strange knowing that bit about your personal lives, but..." 

"Well, we're all adults," Forge said. 

Yes, but only _barely_ for one of us. 

"You must be used to that," Weasel chimed in. "I mean, since you're a journalist and all. You must know a lot about a lot of people." 

That's _journali_--oh. He _did_ say journalist. 

Well, good for him. And people say that education of the youth of this country is going down the toilet... 

"Well, yes," I said. "But I don't--I mean...I just...It makes me a _little_ uncomfortable. Not because of your relationship," I added quickly. "Just...knowing about your relationship. Because--I feel like I shouldn't. You kn...ow?" 

"Yes, perfectly," Forge said. "It's like that for me with you and Lance." 

I stared at him. 

"Oh," Weasel said, his eyes becoming very round. He looked up at Forge, his mouth slightly ajar in wonder. 

"Oh!" he repeated then smiled brilliantly at me. "That's great. I mean, for you and Lance. I think that's really fantastic!" 

"I'm sorry," Forge said, furrowing his brow. "Was I not supposed to--?" 

"Did Ms. Lee tell you?" I asked, trying not to hyperventilate. 

"Well, no," Forge said, now looking very unsettled. "I just--assumed, since you seemed a lot...friendlier with him." 

Yes, but _hands-down-the-pants_ friendlier? I didn't think I was being _that_ obvious. 

"You're so cute together," Weasel said. 

"Uh--thanks," I said. 

"Just to make sure," Forge said, "you're okay with Weasel and me?" 

"Yes," I said. 

"_Okay_ okay or just _okay_?" Weasel bubbled anxiously. 

"Okay okay...?" I said hesitantly. 

"Alright," Forge said. 

Jesus, Jesus, _Jesus_. 

"Well, if we make you uncomfortable at any point..." Forge continued, and I started eyeballing the distance between the door and me. Maybe I could lunge for it? 

"Don't worry," I said, hyperventilating. "I'm okay. Okay okay. And--okay." 

I fled. Behind me, I heard Weasel say guilelessly and perplexedly, 

"I think that that went well, didn't it?" 

Six-years-difference well, maybe. 

"What's going on?" I heard Tabitha ask from outside the bus. 

"Scott, Forge, and Tinkerbell had a fantastical orgy of epic proportions while you were gone," Jubilee informed her. 

"Ooh, did you get it on tape?" Tabitha asked gleefully. 

"No!" I yelped, almost skidding into a lamp and-backslash-or coffee table as I made my valiant retreat. 

"Ah, Summers," Lance said. 

"None for you," I declared, pointing at him and then hyperventilating some more. 

"I'm going to go sit in the passenger seat," I said. 

"But Weasel's gonna sit there," Lance said, looking slightly bewildered. Probably because I'd said 'None for you,' I'd imagine. 

"I'll keep the seat warm for him," I said. 

"But Scottyboy," Tabitha wheedled from outside the bus, "I want _details_." 

"Draw a picture and I'll tell you if it's accurate. Later," I added and quickly left before I had an aneurysm and my head imploded. 

Someone _really_ hates me up there. Maybe I should abandon my secular ways and join a cloister. 

Or I could always hang myself--a pleasant and popular option. 

Hmm. The choices, the choices... 

My cellphone rang and I glanced at it. It was Jean--something that could be either very, very good, or even worse than everything else that'd happened so far today. And that's saying something. 

"Hello?" I finally picked up. 

"Scott, Scott, Scott," Jean said. "Why haven't you been _calling_ me?" 

I decided to take the direct approach. "Because I've been too busy sleeping with a rock star." 

There was silence. Then a click. 

Three seconds later, my cellphone rang again. 

"Jean?" I asked. 

"Hi, Scott! I had the weirdest dream that I called you and you told me you'd been--" 

"That wasn't a dream," I said. 

She made a sound like she was choking, then asked in a strangled voice, "_What_?" 

"We're a thing now," I said. 

"_What_?!" 

"We were stuff before, but now we're not," I added. 

"_Scott_," she said. 

"It's horrible," I said. "It's truly, positively _horrible_." 

"When did this happen?" she asked. 

"I don't even remember. I think I've been anesthetized. Last night, he molested me with a Buddha, and I didn't even blink," I said. 

"Buddha molested you?" she asked, confused. 

"No, Lance did. With Buddha." 

"Lance and Buddha ganged up and molested you?" 

"Lance and a puppet Buddha," I said. 

"Pinocchio, Lance and--?" 

"Jean," I said disapprovingly. 

"Sorry," she said vaguely. "But seriously--what...?" 

"I don't know," I said. "I got involved with him. I mean--_talking_ involved. Then things got physical and--" 

"This must be some kind of record for you," Jean remarked. "You usually take months before you're willing to--you know." 

"Yeah, I know," I said. "But we did. I mean--we slept together. In the space of--a-a week or something." 

"Wow," she said. "So how do you feel about it? You don't feel like it's going too fast or anything, do you?" 

"I feel--I don't know," I said. "I'm still adjusting. I can't figure out whether or not he's joking a lot of the time. It drives me _crazy_." 

She paused, then asked slyly, "Crazy in a good way or bad?" 

"Kind of both," I admitted at length. "He's...funny." 

"Funny," she repeated. 

"And hot," I said grudgingly. 

"Hot," she sighed dreamily. 

"And--I don't know," I said miserably. "Things have gone from bad to worse!" 

"Worse? What do you mean?" Jean asked. However, I didn't get a chance to answer, because I heard someone clear their throat from behind me. 

I turned around. 

Lance arched an eyebrow at me. He gestured toward the back with his head. I swallowed hard, and said distractedly into the phone, 

"I'll call you back." 

"What? Wait, Scott--" 

I stood up and blinked as Lance slid into the driver's seat and exited through that side. I got out of the passenger side and followed him around back, where he popped open a small hatch somewhere near the far middle of the bus. 

"Ladies first," he said jokingly, and I was too shell-shocked from both my conversation with Weasel and Forge and Lance obviously overhearing my conversation with Jean to even so much as glare at him. 

This was doing _wonders_ for my conversational skills. I would forever now be known for my lightning-fast quips. 

Jesus. 

"'Bad to worse'?" was the first thing Lance said when we got inside. 

"What?" I asked. 

"'_Bad_,'" he said, as if pronouncing something very difficult with distaste, "'to _worse_'?" 

"Well, yes," I said, almost affronted. Yeah, _that_ made sense: How _dare_ you eavesdrop on my conversation about you behind your back! 

"I mean, I didn't _plan_ on sleeping with you, you know," I added. 

"And why is that a fuckin' bad thing?" Lance asked. He reminded me of a stern parent, requesting the explanation for why a cookie jar was empty. 

Great--first Forge, now Lance. Only, I wasn't screwing Forge. 

Ouch. 'Screwing'? Since when was my internal monologue so crass?--oh, right. That'd be Lance's fault. 

I gawked at him in response, almost sputtering. Why was it _bad_? 

"My _reputation_!" I reminded him crossly. "If anyone finds out--" 

"Maybe _I_'m worried for my fuckin' reputation, too," Lance argued. He was obviously just trying to be difficult. I glared at him. 

"I don't think so," I said. "I mean--you've got it _made_. No one cares what you do offstage. But I'm just a--just a--" 

"Reporter?" Lance finished for me. 

"Journalist," I corrected. 

"Whatever," he said and flopped onto the bed, spread-eagle and staring at the ceiling. 

I was reminded of a fish. 

A spread-eagle fish. 

Okay, not so much a fish anymore. 

"It's not like I'm being totally professional with you," I said. "Since the--you know." 

"Yeah, so?" Lance twisted a little and rummaged under the bed, surfacing with a ping-pong paddle and a whiffle ball. He began bouncing the whiffle ball on said pad. I watched him and thought about thrilling things like sine graphs. 

"So I tend to think of this as being a _bad_ thing," I said. 

"Our _thing_ is bad?" Lance asked casually. "Funny--I thought you were the one who wanted this fuckin' relationship so fuckin' _badly_." 

"I--" I began, then stopped. 

You said that our _what_? 

I grinned. A mostly sappy grin, but there was a hint of 'Ohh, _now_ you did it' in there, too. 

"You...?" Lance prompted after a moment. 

"_You_ admitted we have a relationship," I said. 

He blinked. His expression didn't change, but I noted that he missed the whiffle ball and had to catch it before it rolled off the side of the bed and toss it up into the air again. 

"We've had one for a few days," he said, as if it weren't a big deal. 

You are so very bad at economics, Mr. Alvers, because, you see, it's a _very_ big deal. Supply and demand, you _see_? Obviously, the supply--otherwise known as the potential for this 'thing' to be a 'thing'--is in direct proportion to your demand. 

And I'm not just talking about the amps between your legs, Mr. Alvers. 

No, I'm not. 

I almost giggled. Chortled, was more the word, really, but-- 

"But not _officially_," I said. "You never said _officially_." 

"So?" He was very obviously squirming. Okay, maybe not _obviously_, but I think that _Mr. Alvers_ wasn't nearly as 'cool' with this whole conversation as he was acting. 

Or maybe I'm reading him completely wrong. But I think I'll go with my instincts on this one, for the sake of my sanity and pride. 

"We're a thing," I said, a lot more gleeful than I would've liked. "I mean--a _thing_ thing." 

"A _thing_ thing?" he repeated amusedly. 

"Like Forge and Weasel," I said. 

He arched an eyebrow. 

"If you get your idea of a perfect, lasting relationship from Forge and Tink, then you're seriously fucked up," he said. 

"Why?" I asked, puzzled. "Besides the--you know. Six years...you know?" 

"Because," he said. "That relationship's never gonna last." 

I stared at him with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, which could have just been the fajita I'd had for lunch earlier, but I really didn't think so. 

"Because," he said again. He paused almost thoughtfully for a moment, then continued, "Weasel's mom is gonna fuckin' shit a taxicab." 

I blinked. 

"That's all?" I said incredulously. "But--that has nothing to do with their relationship." 

"You idiot," he chuckled. He glanced up and eyed me. 

"If you'd ever met Weasel's mom," he said slowly, "you'd understand." 

I blinked again. 

"One," Lance bounced the whiffle ball a few times on the paddle, "she's scary as fuck. And two--" here, he backhanded the whiffle ball into the wall mid-bounce. "Forge gets a healthy dose from her of what he's gonna be coming home to in twenty years." 

"What?" I asked. 

Lance schooled his face to a blank, then perked up in the most disgustingly chipper way possible; 

"Hiya, Forge! How the fuck are you today?! Oh, lemme take your coat! How was work? Oh, I wish I coulda been there! Gotta stay home and take care of these five dozen adopted kiddies, though, yeah?! Awww, I _wuv_ you, Forge! Wuv you, wuv you, wuv you! _Let's go have sex now and pretend we can have babies..._!" 

I stared at him, aghast. 

I knew Weasel was bubbly, but I didn't know that he was kooky, needs-to-be-_bubblewrapped_ bubbly. 

"He's not like that yet," Lance said very calmly as if he hadn't just been mimicking a rabid monkey. "But if his mom is any indication, Weasel'd better start practicing tonin' it down, hey?" 

"They have medication for that sort of thing," I said weakly. 

"Not if it's fuckin' genetic, I imagine," Lance said. 

"They talked to me today," I said. "Forge and Weasel, that is." 

"About what?" he grinned. "A double date?" 

I glared at him. "No. They were just making sure I wasn't...you know, uncomfortable with anything." 

"Summers," he said, "you're _always_ uncomfortable." 

"Am not," I protested. 

"You're so uncomfortable, I gotta wonder if you've got a clamp in the gig area," Lance continued, ignoring me. 

"Lance," I said. 

"Ring-etapilis of the cock-olus," he said. 

"I hate you," I said. 

"Right back atcha, sporto," Lance said, and we kissed. 

"It really _is_ insult-kiss," I said afterwards. 

"Hmm," Lance said. "I hope I still have some cigarettes." 

  


  


  


  


"Sign it with love, please," said a hyperactive girl with multicolored hair in pigtails and a neon pink shirt-skirt ensemble. She bounced a few times on her heels and grinned like a maniac. I eyed her with suspicion. 

"How about this," Lance arched an eyebrow and read what he'd just written, "'Signing this picture is like baking a casserole.'" 

He looked at me as if to say, 'With love. Get it?' 

The girl grinned even wider. "Perfect, thanks." She flounced off, dragging by the arm a short boy who had been asking Jubilee, 

"Will you marry me? I know this guy at McDonald's who could do the vows--hey! S-adie, I was _busy_!" 

"Doof," I heard the girl say. 

"Aw, how cute," Jubilee said, grinning, and waved the t-shirt she'd been signing for the boy before slinging it at him. He caught it and promptly adopted an expression as if he'd just touched the feet of the Dalai Lama. 

I sighed and tried to ignore the fact that I was wedged between Rogue and Lance, the former worrying me much more than the latter. Though, Lance _was_ trying to cop a feel under the table every so often, so _that_ was kind of bothersome, too. 

I didn't even know why I was here, but I tried to make do and look attentive all the same. And by attentive, I mean that I put on my shades and made sure my expression was neutral and blank rather than bored and suicidal. 

Then I noticed a certain purple babushka down the line for Lance. 

Oh, shit. 

Wasn't that the 'Mystique' lady who'd been stalking us in--well, stalking us _everywhere_? Stalking Lance, to be more accurate, but still. It was spooky. 

"Lance," I said as quietly as I could. 

"Hmm?" He drummed his hands on the table, grinned at the sullen girl who had approached the table, and held up his pen. 

"Oh. My. God," said the girl, who suddenly seemed to experience a miraculous change from Gloomy Goth Girl to Giggly Goth Girl. Which seemed just a _little_ wrong? 

I blinked and looked over. 

_Wanda_? 

Behind her was Todd, who lit up when he saw me. 

"Scott _Summers_, hey?" he said. 

"Um, yes," I said. "How are you?" 

"Oh. My. _God_," Wanda said again, staring at Lance. 

Lance quirked an eyebrow at her. She held out a CD, and he pulled out the inside cover. 

"I'm alright, yo," Todd said and loped up beside his girlfriend to talk to me. "How's the tour goin'?" 

"Pretty well, I think," I said. 

"Oh, my _God_!" Wanda said. 

"Who's this for?" Lance asked offhandedly, having already written, 'Not for individual sale' across the middle of the cover. 

"Wa..." Wanda said very coherently. 

"Wanda," I told him once it began apparent that Wanda was unable to speak for herself. 

Lance raised his eyebrows at me, but didn't comment. Finishing signing his name, he handed the CD back. 

"Th..." Wanda said. 

"Thanks a bunch, man," Todd said, pulling out his own CD from his hoodie's front pocket. 

"I thought the bonus tracks were totally wicked," he added, doing a little dance as Lance signed said CD. 

"Thanks. So you know our reporter, huh?" Lance said. 

_Journalist_. 

"Met him a week or so ago," Todd said brightly. 

"He showed me backstage," I said uncertainly. 

"For--?" Lance glanced up. 

"Todd," Todd said, "Tolensky." 

Lance grinned. "Hey, don't you know Jubes?" 

"_Yeah_!" Todd said and practically glowed. "Did she mention me?" 

"Once or twice," Lance said. "Said somethin' about art class?" 

Todd laughed. "Yeah, man. That fuckin' ruled." 

"_Oh, my God_!" I heard Wanda squeal from somewhere in the throng. I blanched, remembering how apathetic she'd been when I'd first met her. _Jesus_. 

Maybe she'd had an allergic reaction to Lance? 

Lance handed back the CD and remarked, "If you want, you could come back and hang out in the bus with us after the concert." 

"If I _want_," Todd repeated and grinned so brightly I thought that he was Weasel for a split second. "Man, I'm be fuckin' _honored_." 

"Alright, we'll check you later then," Lance said easily. 

"Thanks, man," Todd said reverently and practically dashed off. 

"Hey, Wanda, guess what...!" I heard him call. 

Next in line was--_Mystique_? 

I looked past her and saw a few wannabe-rivetheads eating their own boot-buckles, obviously having suffered from Mystique cutting in front of them by force. Ouch. 

"Mystique," Lance said dryly. "Didn't expect to see _you_ here." 

"I followed you to Detroit," Mystique said darkly. "You're _cheating_ on me." 

"Uh-huh," Lance said, unconvinced. "Do you actually have something that I can _sign_?" 

Mystique reached down and took off one of her pumps and set it on the table with a loud clunk. I stared at it. 

Lance picked it up and scribbled his name onto it, looked up, and arched an eyebrow at her. 

"I have something else," she said. 

And she took out a picture. 

Of an ass. 

Of _my_ ass, to be specific. 

"Um," I said. 

"Oh, hey, from the photobooth," Lance said as if there were nothing wrong. He picked it up and signed his name directly across both cheeks and onto his face in the picture. 

"Who is _that_?" Mystique demanded, pointing at me. 

"Scott Summers," I said nervously. "From--the College Press Times." 

"He's our reporter for the week," Lance drawled, handing the picture back. 

_Journali_--handing the picture back?! Wait-- 

"Um," I said and tried not to hyperventilate. "That photo--" 

"Is this of _you_?" Mystique hissed, waving the picture of my signed buttocks under my nose. 

"No," I lied. "But I could...ask intelligence to look at that for you, if you'd like." 

Lance snorted. "What are you, the CIA?" 

I ignored him and quirked an eyebrow at Mystique. 

I could pretend to be a government official. Hell, I have sunglasses and a tie on, don't I? 

Okay, so maybe that was the MIB. But same difference, right? 

Mystique sniffed airily and glanced at the picture in her hand. 

"I think I'll keep it," she said coldly. 

Dammit. Mission failed. 

She began to turn away, then paused, looking back at Lance. 

"And I forgive you anyway," she said almost sweetly. 

Lance rolled his eyes and drummed his fingers, saying loudly, "_Next_?" 

Mystique put on her shoe and glared at me before hobbling away, still trying to get her heel inside her pump. I slumped down in my chair. 

"_Jesus_," I muttered. 

Lance snickered. 

"You're a fuckin' _celebrity_ now, Summers," he said. 

"Bite me," I grumbled. 

He just laughed and asked the next person, "Who's this for again?" 

I glowered at his elbow and decided that if a certain someone snuck into my hotel room at any future time and smothered me to death, I would blame him. 

Him and his Buddha. 

Antisthenes signed autographs for another hour or so, then went backstage to warm up for the concert. I followed them and nearly ran into Forge and Weasel, who were busy playing tonsil hockey against some storage cabinets that were to the left of a giant fuse box. When Weasel saw that it was me, he turned a strange shade of crimson and tried to perform the Heimlich maneuver on Forge. As I was walking away, I heard Forge observe that pretending to give CPR might've been a better choice. 

Jesus, I think I liked it better when I could pretend that Forge and Weasel didn't know about my knowing about their six-years difference. 

After the concert, we headed back to the tour bus. There was one scary moment where I almost bumped into Rogue and nearly wet myself, but fortunately she was too busy concentrating her efforts on...sharpening her nails. With a nail file, to be sure, but most people don't sharpen their nails to points, right? 

Gulp, shudder--avoiding at all costs. 

Once we got to the tour bus, Lance did a funny thing with his eyebrows that I think was supposed to communicate that he wanted to head into the backroom and do things that didn't involve clothes. Remembering the Forge incident--where he did nothing to help me thwart The Most Horrifying Conversation Of My Life--I pretended not to notice. He tried to pout and look like a kicked puppy, but only succeeded in looking like someone who had been left to marinade in his own horniness and had emerged a little too burnt around the edges. 

A brief respite from the fun-charged insanity was Todd and Wanda coming back to the bus to socialize with the band. Well, Todd more than Wanda, really; she spent most of the time saying, 'Oh, my God' and staring at Johnny's ass. Occasionally and unfortunately, she would lapse into a squealing fangirl when she broke through the fog of her shock. 

"Oh, my God," Wanda said very intelligently when she saw the inside of the bus. 

"If you're momentarily blinded by the tropical colors, feel free to swoon into my lap," Johnny said graciously and earned a thwack on the arm from Jubilee for his trouble, who then sniffed, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and asked Todd with interest, 

"So, what've you been up to? Still into art, poetry, shit like that?" 

"Not poetry as much," Todd said. "I try writin', like--y'know--lyrics and stuff sometimes. Got a, uh, garage band goin'..." he added in clarification. 

"Hey, cool," Jubilee said, grinning. "What kind of stuff do you guys play?" 

"Oh, my God," Wanda said. 

"All sorts of stuff," Todd said. "We're trying to perfect our Blue Oyster Cult covers right now, though." 

"Man, like 'Don't Fear the Reaper'?" Johnny interjected with enthusiasm. He air-guitared a few imaginary chords and swung his elbows around, jerking his head up and down and slightly resembling a strangled chicken. 

"Self-proclaimed king of the air guitar," Lance drawled. "How you feelin' today, Johnny A.?" 

He held out an imaginary microphone, and Johnny leaned in to talk into it, adopting the worst British accent I'd ever heard: 

"Oi'm good, Lance--keen, wot? It's bleedin' ninety-four Celsius, though, an' I'm-a bustin' something that ain't purty!" 

"Brilliant," I said. "Would that be from the Texan quarter of London--that last half, I mean?" 

"You mock my ingenuity," Johnny cackled. 

"Oh, my God," Wanda said. 

Rogue wandered in from the backroom and pointed at her eye, looking a little more pissed off than usual. 

"Eyeliner?" Lance guessed. "Haven't seen it." 

She growled, snatched an atlas off of the coffee table, and stamped off. 

Jubilee coughed, squirming a little, and Lance turned to smirk at her; 

"Saved your ass, Jubes." 

"Thanks," Jubilee said and glanced nervously at the back. "I was _planning_ on giving it back..." 

"You've gone from being half-senile to completely senile, huh?" Todd laughed. "Remember when you had, what, fifty strings tied on your fingers?" 

"Hell, yes," Jubilee grinned. "I was hoping to start a new fad." 

"If you'd tied Twizzlers on your fingers, it might've been a new fad," Todd suggested. "Like Ring Pops, only..." 

"More unsanitary?" I suggested. 

"He's our resident prude _and_ reporter," Lance said. "We lucked out on _this_ bargain, see." 

"Shut up," I said. 

"You shut up, sporto," he replied easily enough. 

"Oh, my _God_," Wanda said. 

_Jesus_, that was getting annoying. 

My cell phone rang and I grimaced, apologized briefly, and glanced at the screen. 

Jean again. 

"Hello?" I said. 

"Scott!" she said. "Can you talk now?" 

"Uh, hold on," I said. I gestured toward the door, and Lance flicked me off. I ignored him and hopped out, glancing around. 

No sign of Forge. No sign of Weasel, either... 

Jesus. 

"Okay, now I can," I said. 

"Kurt got us locked in a phone booth," she said very darkly. 

"He _what_?" I asked. 

"I did _not_!" I heard in the background. 

"Why are you two in a phone booth anyways?" I asked. 

"Was going to--prank phone call," Jean muttered incoherently. 

"You were going to what?!" 

"Ve got Maximoff's home number!" Kurt crowed in the background and Jean hissed, 

"Would you be _quiet_?" 

"Jean--I--" I started, then sighed. Jesus, things were just falling apart back at home, weren't they? 

"Sco-tt," Jean said, wheedling. "What do we do? Should we call information or something?" 

"I _guess_ so," I said. "You could call the police station." 

"God, this is so embarrassing," Jean groused. 

"It vasn't _my_ fault," Kurt said. 

"I--hate--you," was Jean's response. 

"Wait, wait," I said. "Put Kurt on." 

"Nngh," Jean said and I heard some shuffling, before she said loudly from the background, "You'd better be _careful_ with that phone, Kurt Wagner! It was sixty bucks after rebate. _After_--_rebate_!" 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Kurt said, then brightly: "Hey, Scott! How you doin'?" 

"I'm alright," I said. "What happened over there?" 

"Aw, no 'I miss you's?" he said impishly. 

"No, you don't get an 'I miss you' until you tell me how you ended up being Jack-in-the-box's distant cousin," I said. 

"Distant cousin_s_," Kurt said. "With an 's.' And joined at the hip." 

"Don't make me come over there," Jean threatened. 

"Ooh, vhat're you gonna do?" Kurt asked, half-laughing. "Come one foot over and beat me vith your purse--_Ow_!" 

"Serves you right," I said, smiling a little. "No taunting." 

"Vhat's she got in there?" Kurt grumbled. "A ton of bricks?" 

"So, what happened?" I asked. 

"Jean vas gonna make a prank phone call," he said, "and I wanted to hear it." 

"_Jean_ was the mastermind?" I asked, surprised. "Tell her I'm very disappointed in her." 

"He says, 'I'm very _disappointed_ in you,'" Kurt said smugly in his 'I'm a parent and I'm pissy, but I'm going to hide it by sounding like I'm talking to someone who is mentally deficient' voice. He always used that voice when he imitated me, and it drove me nuts. Fortunately for him, I felt that it was called for in this situation. 

"Oh, shut up," Jean said. "Give me the phone." 

"No," Kurt said. 

I rolled my eyes. Whenever Jean and Kurt--two of the most intelligent people I know--had a conversation, it always devolved to the third-grade level. 

"Kurt! It's _my_ phone!" 

"So?--Hey, _ow_! Stop--Scott, she's trying to--" 

"_Kurt_!" 

"Hey--" I started, but was interrupted by a loud crash and clatter on the other side. 

No lost love, I guess. I really hoped that Jean hadn't found some way to stuff Kurt's face up the change slot. 

"Jean? Kurt?" I asked, bewildered when no one said anything for a minute or two. 

Someone picked up, but it was neither Jean nor Kurt. "Hello?" 

"Kitty," I said after identifying the voice. "What the hell is going on?" 

"I just found Kurt and Jean totally wiped out on the sidewalk," Kitty said, sounding bored out of her mind. 

I coughed. "This wasn't one of those 'We pushed when we should've pulled' deals, was it?" 

"No, I don't think so," she said. "I think their fighting just, like, _broke_ the door or something." 

"Oh, great," I said with a sigh. "Are they conscious?" 

"And going at it," Kitty said. 

"Oh, no, they're fighting _again_? Hasn't breaking the phone booth taught them any--" 

"No, they're _going_ at it," Kitty repeated. 

I gagged. "_What_? But Ray--!" 

"Jean and him broke up last night or something. I'm not sure," Kitty said. 

"What? But...I don't--_what_?!" 

I imagined Kitty shrugging. "Don't ask me. All I know is that she made a pile of KISS posters on our lawn and set them on fire. Totally flipped, you know?" 

"Jesus," I said. "Did she start talking about feminist Marxism and how all men should be stamped with--" 

"The Snapple logo?" Kitty finished for me. "Yeah. It was kinda scary. Anyways," she sighed. "I gotta run. Talk to you later." 

"Okay," I said, but paused when I heard Jean call breathlessly, 

"Ask him about the band!" 

Oh, crap. _Jean_...! 

"The band?" Kitty sounded perplexed, then squealed directly into my ear. I nearly lost my balance, and I completely lost my hearing. 

"_Lance_?! Are you _seriously_ hanging out with _Antisthenes_ right now?!" she shrieked. 

"_Jesus_," I said. 

"Oh, my God!" Kitty yelled. "Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my _God_!" 

What _is_ it with Antisthenes and girls saying 'Oh, my God'? 

"Scott, you _have_ to get me an autograph or something!" Kitty begged. "Please?!" 

"I'm working on it," I said. 

"Tell him to steal an ashtray or something from them," I heard Kurt say. 

"Tell Kurt that he can come up and commit petty theft himself if he wants it so badly," I said. 

"He says that you can _totally_ come up and commit petty theft if you wanna," Kitty said enthusiastically. 

I mentally slapped my forehead. "I meant that in an admonishing way." 

"It doesn't matter," Kitty said. "I don't want a stupid ashtray. Only idiots smoke." 

Which would explain why Lance smoked? Of course, Lance wasn't exactly an idiot, but I was still a little peeved about the Forge situation. 

"I'll get you an autograph," I promised. 

"Do you have, like, a picture or something?" she asked. 

"Uh, no," I said. "But I'm sure they have random pictures lying around that he'd be happy to sign." 

Of course, the random picture Lance signed had better not be one of my _ass_. 

"Fantastic," Kitty gushed. "Thank you _so_ much." 

"No problem," I muttered. 

There was a pause, then Jean was back. 

"She had a class," Jean explained. 

"What's she majoring in again?" I asked. 

"Astrophysics," Jean said. 

I whistled. "Kitty and her astrophysics." 

Kitty was disturbingly intelligent. Which was why Pietro had no chance in trying to fool her--something that appeased me greatly. 

"Hey," I said, frowning then, "You and Kurt are--" 

"I can't hear you," Jean said, her voice perfectly clear across the phone. "Sorry--I think you're--you're breaking up...?" 

"What?" I asked. "Oh, no, you don't--!" 

"Sorry, Scott," she said sweetly. "Static." (1) 

And then she hung up on me. 

She _hung_ up on me! 

"Not fair," I muttered. 

_Some_one wasn't getting details later on. 

I clicked close my phone and tucked it into my coat pocket before heading back to the tour bus. Lance opened the door just as I stepped up to do so. He arched an eyebrow. 

"Have fun?" I asked, grinning a little. 

"Tolensky's girlfriend's a whackadoo," he said. 

"A what?" I said, confused. 

"A basketcase," Lance said, stepping out and closing the bus door behind him. "A headjob, psycho, lunatic--y'know, fun words like that." 

"Oh," I said, watched him haul himself up the side of the bus, and followed him a little hesitantly. 

Lance had stretched himself out on his back, his head pillowed on his crossed arms like before. I sat down next to him, and linked my arms around my knees. 

"So who was that?" he asked nonchalantly. 

"Who?" I asked, confused momentarily. "Oh--on the phone? That was Jean." 

"The infamous Jean," he said. "Is she good friends with you or somethin'?" 

"Yeah," I said, grinning a little. "I've been friends with her since, oh, third grade, I think." 

"Wow," he drawled. "So you were, what, eight?" 

"I think so, yes," I said. "The very first thing she did was punch me in the face with a plastic tea kettle. Entirely by accident, that is," I added. "She cried and her mom had to take her back home to administer, you know, the number-one, proven-to-work cheer-me-up." 

"Yeah?" Lance seemed amused. "And what would that be?" 

"Apple juice and graham crackers," I said, grinning. 

He was quiet and didn't reply, humming to himself under his breath. I hesitated, then lay down, resting my head next to his shoulder. 

"I wonder if we fucked if they'd be able to hear," he mused after a moment. 

"I'd imagine so," I said. "Since we're on their roof and all." 

He snorted and quipped, "Fuckerin' on the roof." 

I laughed and teased, "'Fuckering'?" 

"I had to make the syllables fit 'fiddler,'" Lance explained. 

I grinned. "_That_'s a play I don't plan on seeing any time soon." 

"Too bad," he said flippantly. 

"Are you the producer?" I asked. 

"Naturally," he agreed. "It's my brainchild. It's brilliant." 

"It's something, alright," I said. 

There was a comfortable silence for a while. I tried to see the stars, but there was an extraordinary amount of light pollution from the city. I could see the moon, though, and it was brighter than any of the lights below. Still, I started dozing off, maybe because I still felt a little concussed. 

Never again am I going to wrangle with a Norseman. 

After what seemed like a pensive moment, Lance said softly and sleepily, his words slurred like he was confused or something, 

"I--didn't really know my parents." 

I stared at the sky and wondered if Lance had the Buddha with him or if he left it at the hotel. 

"My dad was a half-assed drunk that was never home, and my mom was probably on five fuckin' different pills," he said. He didn't really sound like he cared at all, but I couldn't help but wonder if he was just a yarn-knit ball of angst inside or something. Hmm. Sounded like a song title or something. 

"So, I guess that part of your story was right then," I said in what I hope was a light voice. 

He chuckled. "Yeah, man. She didn't iron clothes or any shit like that, though." 

I was quiet. 

"Did they beat the living daylights out of you?" I asked, half-joking and hoping that they hadn't. I glanced up at him, and his head was tilted to the side, like something puzzled him. 

"No..." he said slowly and vaguely. He sounded like he was very drowsy. "They just--ignored me, I guess." 

"Oh," I said. 

"Gave me time to start a fuckin' band, didn't it?" he grinned after a moment. 

I wondered if I should say that I was sorry or something, or if I should bring something else up. I'd probably talk about my pet rocks or something, though, or bring up my gerbil again. Jesus, I sucked at these conversations. 

Before I could think of something to say, there was a loud, "Oh, my _God_!" from inside the bus. 

We grinned at each other. 

"I guess that's all there is to it," I said. "'Oh, my God.'" 

"Do you have a fuckin' speech planned out for an occasion like this?" Lance asked, smiling a little. 

"Yes," I said. "Shit happens." 

He arched an eyebrow at me. "That's it?" 

"Flush the toilet and move on?" I tried. 

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'Give it to someone else and it'll be their shit instead,'" he said. 

"Well," I said, "shit leaves stains, doesn't it? Even worse ones than, uh, blood or...cherries." 

"Cherries," he repeated. 

"So," I said, "uh...you could say--philosophically speaking, of course--that the best thing to do with shit would be...um, turn it into..." 

I paused, thinking, and said, "Fertilizer." at the same time Lance asked, "Shitade?" 

"Shitade," I said with a laugh. "And you think _I_ mix up my idioms?" 

"It's a new idiom," Lance said placidly. 

"Hmm," I said. "So is 'Breakfast is the best medicine,' then." 

"But my new idiom's better than your new idiom," he said. "Yours is crap." 

"Then I'll take my idiom elsewhere," I said airily. He scowled and shoved me a little. 

"I'm gonna push you off," he threatened. 

That's not the verb you usually use, is it, Mr. Alvers? 

--Jesus, Lance had completely and totally corrupted me. 

"You're evil," I said. 

"I am many things, Mr. Bond," Lance said in a mock-British accent. "But e-vile is not one of them." 

I chuckled and observed, "Your accent's a lot better than Johnny's." 

"Johnny's accents are fuckin' _awful_," he said fondly. "And he can't hold one for more than two _seconds_." 

"Oh, my God," Wanda said from inside. 

"Exactly," I said to the roof of the bus. Lance snorted and shoved me again before settling down and wrapping an arm around my waist. 

I grinned and moved so that my foot was dangling over the side. I was in such a good mood, in fact, that I imagined that if Weasel or Forge were to wander by at that exact moment, I would've kicked my shoe off. 

Just in compensation, of course. 

And not just six-years-difference compensation. 

I think? 

"Oh, my God," said Wanda. 

I agree completely, Wanda. _Completely_. 

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


~tbc 

  


  


  


(1) Wow O.O What _is_ that--like, six words in a row? I'm an alliterating queen XD ...or something. O.o; 


	8. Page Setup

Title: Readme.txt 

Part: 8/9 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: PG-13 

Pairings: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance; Weasel/Forge, Forge/Weasel 

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. 

Spoilers: Nada. 

Warnings: Slash (m/m relationship), AU (which means **Alternate Universe**, for those who don't know.) 

  


  


Notes: Yes, there's a pirate in this chapter. Just for Mor. *hugs the Morness* Also, Readme is drawing the a close...And, I wish I could say something more meaningful, but I have eight minutes to upload this before my internet connection craps out, so...>.>; 

  


  


Additional Notes: Grateful thank-yous go to my faithful reviewers and supporters: Morwen O'Conner, Olhado, Lyo, Sheena, Shawna (I _love_ the picture you drew me!! *hearts*), N, S, Katreon of Team Socket, Laureate, Katherine, Ishida Kat, Periwinka, Doomkitty, BackstageMark, Nine Bucks, Edainme, Risty, and last but not least Mercuria. *HUGS YOU ALL* 

I also just got back from seeing Mor (who is vacationing about twenty minutes from my home) and she wants me to give y'all a nice, hearty, "ARR!" 

  


  


Additional-er Notes: Check out **The Blind Fish Archive**! The link is under the magical spooky skeleton at www.geeky-pirate.net. Feel free to submit your fics! In fact, I'm begging you to. ...Please?   


  


Enjoy and Review!!!...please? 

  


  


  


  


-- 

After Chicago, it was off to Washington D.C. I'm not entirely sure why Antisthenes decided it was a good idea to have such a scattered tour plan, but I wasn't about to ask. I had a feeling that I might have to talk to Xavier if I did that, and that was something I planned on avoiding. Permanently. 

Therefore, I settled for hypothesizing to myself about the tour schedule. Maybe it was seasonal? Cities were only visited when the weather was spot-on right and all that...? Hmm. 

In the meantime, the band had a similar conversation regarding Washington D.C., which ended with Johnny waving it off and saying, "The White House is dead anyways." and Jubilee replying, "That's _Elvis_, you moron." 

"Elvis is perfectly alive," Johnny argued. "He's just, y'know, chillin'...somewhere...out there." 

"You know what's dead?" Lance drawled. 

The three of them said almost simultaneously, "Punk." then laughed. 

Ah, a music-insiders' joke. I think I'll just sit here and smile uneasily and pretend that I get it. 

"Hey, Scott," Johnny said, still grinning a little wildly. I thought about cuckoo nests and aerial flight. "It's already Friday--aren't you headin' back to your boring desk job on Monday?" 

"Why, yes, I believe I am," I said, trying not to sound too sarcastically surprised. And hey--I happen to _like_ my 'boring desk job.' 

"When's the article going to run?" Jubilee asked. 

"Well," I said and did a few calculations. "Probably Tuesday or Wednesday. I have to see what my boss thinks of it." 

Or doesn't think, really. With half the office gone and both Jean and Kurt AWOL--and I'm almost dead-on _certain_ that they dragged Bobby out, too, with little to no coercion--Pietro was probably going out of his mind trying to run a newspaper. Of course, that could either be a good or bad thing, I suppose. 

On one hand, a sane Pietro was an evil, smug bastard who enjoyed tormenting others and trying to seduce any eligible and _in_eligible women. On the other hand, an insane Pietro was probably an evil, smug bastard who enjoyed tormenting others and trying to seduce any eligible and ineligible women--who are still left at the office. 

Okay, I'm not seeing much of a difference. Jesus. 

"What if he fuckin' hates it?" Lance drawled. 

"I--guess I'll have to rewrite it," I said. Rewrite it to fit Pietro's own little diabolic, gremlin purposes. The thought of it alone made me shudder. 

Just then, I was struck with a mental image of Pietro as the little paperclip office assistant that popped up in Microsoft Word every so often. Except, unfortunately, we couldn't click the 'hide' option with Pietro. And instead of having to prompt him to 'animate' himself, Pietro animated himself. 

And when I say 'animate,' I mean that he fired people, read the comments in the suggestion box and matched the handwriting, and other such things, of course. 

"Or you could not," Lance suggested. "One less fuckin' article in the world, hey?" 

"What?" I asked, confused. 

"New idea," Johnny proclaimed, throwing his arms out wide. "How's about this, Scottbuster: skip the article and just put a huge spread of our asses!" 

"You said 'spread' and 'ass' in the same sentence," Jubilee grinned. 

Johnny blinked, then wondered with confusion, "Isn't that _my_ line?" 

"Well, you can't fuckin' answer _yourself_, can you?" Lance asked dryly. 

"I thought that I was supposed to say 'skip the article,'" Jubilee said, looking equally puzzled. 

"Christ, we suck ass at pitching ideas," Lance laughed. 

"Use the drawing board for scrap wood," Jubilee suggested. 

"_Fire_...!" Johnny shrieked gleefully. 

"Don't worry," I said hesitantly, "I'll make sure I don't put anything strange in the article." 

Comparatively 'strange,' of course, since I _was_ traveling in the modern day version of the Mystery Machine or something close to it. 

Johnny stared at me blankly, then asked, "We still get to burn the drawing board, yeah?" 

"I'm diggin' the burning idea," Lance said. "We can have a fuckin' campfire and tell skanky stories." 

"And roast marshmallow peeps!" Jubilee said delightedly, clapping her hands. 

"Don't you mean 'scary stories'?" I asked. 

"No," Lance said. 

Why do I even bother? 

"Man, oh, man," Johnny said then, draping an arm around my shoulders and drooping a little. "I gotta tell ya, Scoots: You're one of the funner reporters we've had!" 

First of all, 'funner' is _not_ a word, and _second_, it's _journalist_! 

"Thanks?" I said uncertainly. 

"It's going to be sad when you leave," Jubilee agreed. "You're gonna have to keep in touch, okay?" 

"Sure," I said. 

"Scott," Jubilee said, raising an eyebrow. 

Jesus, who was she? Jean? "Okay, of course." 

"Yay," said Lance's Buddha. I glared at it. 

"Why did you have to give that to him?" I asked Jubilee. 

"Hmm, I'm not sure," she said. "I think we may have to confiscate it soon, though." 

The Buddha gasped. "The fuckin' _world_'s against me! I hate you all!" 

Johnny cackled. "I guess that means the Buddha's goin' into the campfire?" 

"You'll never take me alive, you dipshits," Buddha said and randomly disappeared behind a lima-bean-shaped sofa cushion. I looked pointedly at Lance, who shrugged guilelessly and asked, 

"Why the hell're you lookin' at me?" 

Jubilee giggled and patted Lance's knee from where she was sitting cross-legged on a pillow on the floor. 

"Lancers is being silly today," she said. 

"Fuck you," Lance said. 

"He's so _cute_ when he's being _sil_-ly, idn't he, Scott?" Jubilee cooed and ducked down when Lance went and tried to smack her upside the head. 

I grinned; "Yes, he really is, Ms. Lee." 

"Shut up," Lance ordered. 

"Aww," I said. "And now he's trying to be authoritative." 

"Summers," he growled. 

I pretended not to hear him. 

"Is your article gonna include your sordid love affair with Lancers?" Johnny asked, snickering. 

"Yes," I said. 

Lance scowled and warned, "Don't fuckin' make me come over there...!" 

I'm sorry, Mom. I won't play with matches anymore. 

"It will have all the details that I can't say out loud," I said. Jesus, I can't believe I just said that. 

"Summers, you bitch," Lance said while Jubilee and Johnny fell over, guffawing. 

I grinned at him, feeling like I had the upper hand for once. 

"I'm just joking," I said. 

"Man," Johnny said, "don't actually _say_ that you're joking." 

"Why not?" I asked. 

"Because it's loser-ish," Johnny said. 

What logical reasoning. 

"It clarifies everything," I said. 

"Oh, so you think that fuckin' communication is actually key in conversation?" Lance asked, seeming to have recovered from the shame and dread of having his private life smashed open. Or something. 

"Generally, having a conversation," I said mildly, "involves communication." 

"Smartass," Lance said. 

"It avoids misunderstanding," I said defensively. 

Lance snorted. "Where's the fun in that?" 

You know, Mr. Alvers, maybe our thing should be stuff again. 

"You wanna know what _I_ think you two should do?" Jubilee asked without lifting her eyes from her doodling on a sketchpad. 

No. 

"I think that you should--" 

"Get a fuckin' room?" Lance asked. 

"Where I can't peek and giggle?" Jubilee glanced up and pouted. 

"That's the point of doors and walls," Johnny said, dragging Jubilee over by pulling on the pillow. He pushed her bangs down over her eyes and she pouted even more. 

"I hate doors and walls," she said. 

"Yeah, yeah, you hate everything," Lance said. "Go write a fuckin' poem about it." 

He looked at me and arched an eyebrow. 

"You wanna?" he asked, smirking. 

"How romantic," I said. 

I followed him to the backroom anyways, feeling kind of warm and fuzzy from all the joking around, even though I also felt a little uncomfortable about it. It had also made me miss Jean and Kurt--at least, it _did_ before I realized that Jean and Kurt were probably _not_ missing me because they were...how should I say it?..._sucking face_. 

Jesus, I think I'm going to be sick. Didn't we figure out in high school that the whole Jean-&-Kurt-4ever deal doesn't work? What _was_ this? Or--rather--_where_ was this? Through the looking glass? Do I have to start walking backwards to get to something three feet in front of me? And why have I asked so many questions in a row? 

Lance, like some kind of emotive puppy or something, seemed to pick up my cognitive turmoil and pulled me forward by the hips and kissed me thoroughly. 

Apparently, he had decided that sex was the solution to everything. Fabulous. I wonder if he thought that sex could cure cancer? 

"So..." I said. 

"So're we gonna screw or what?" Lance asked with sophistication. 

"I was thinking--" I began awkwardly. 

"Wow," he said. "We can't have any of that, now can we? C'mon, let's go before--" 

"No, wait," I said. "I just--I meant, do you think I could, uh, maybe...have your phone number or e-mail address or something? So if I have any additional questions--you know?" 

Lance paused and stared at me long and hard. Then, after a moment, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card. 

"My e-mail's on there," he said, handing it to me. 

I stared at it. 

How cute--he's got a little guitar next to his name. This was _completely_ unfair. I mean, what do _rock stars_ need business cards for? _I_ don't have a business card. 

_I_ want a _business card_, dammit! 

"O-h," I said. "Um, what about your...?" 

"Phone number?" he asked, sitting down on the bed and pulling his shoes off. "Welcome to the fuckin' digital age, buddy." 

He tugged off his shirt. I cleared my throat and tucked the card into the breast pocket of my shirt before unbuttoning and shrugging said shirt off. 

I fell into bed with him after kicking off my shoes and socks and lining them up next to the nightstand--yes, I lined them up. I plan on finding them later, you know--but I couldn't stop thinking about other things. 

Lance had made his way down my chest and was approximately at my bellybutton when I abruptly asked him, 

"Why _wouldn't_ you have a phone number on there?" 

He looked up and, with the most perplexed expression ever, asked, "Wha?" 

"Phone numbers are standard," I said. 

He rubbed a hand over his face and asked, "What the fuck are you _talkin'_ about?" 

"Your business card," I said. "Do you even _check_ your e-mail when you're on tour?" 

"Summers, shut the fuck up," he said, sounding rather disgruntled. He jerked my belt loose, unzipped my slacks, and pulled down to my knees all in a series of three quick movements. 

"But I can't contact you via e-mail," I protested. "You won't see anything incoming for--Oh." 

Lance glanced up at me and smirked. 

"Outgoing?" he asked smugly. 

I would've answered, but I was busy not thinking. 

Bastard. 

  


  


  


  


"That was dirty," I said. 

"No, it wasn't," Lance replied around a cigarette. He leered. "I'll _show_ you what dirty is, though..." 

"That's not what I meant," I grumbled, batting off his hand that was creeping down my stomach. "I was _trying_ to ask you a question." 

"Oh, yeah," he said, tucking his rejected hand and arm behind his head and looking at the ceiling. "About cards and numbercrunchers?" 

"Phone numbers," I said. I poked at a tattoo on his arm. "Any reason why you got this?" 

"Thought it looked cool," he said. "What about phone numbers?" 

"Huh," I said. "Well, do you have one?" 

"Have what?" he asked. 

"A phone number." 

"Maybe," he said. 

I hate you, Lance Alvers. 

"Why do you want to know?" he asked then, drawing in a deep breath, then exhaling the smoke through his nostrils. I arched an eyebrow. 

"Like I said, it'd be pretty hard to contact you," I said. "Through e-mail, I mean." 

"I _check_ my fuckin' e-mail," he said, affronted. 

"When you're not getting drunk and getting into barfights, you mean," I said dryly. 

"That was a fuckin' _one-time_ deal," he said. 

I stared at him. He cleared his throat and snickered, 

"Okay, that was a lie." 

I rolled my eyes. 

"Why is it that I feel like I'm the only one investing in this relationship?" I asked aloud, half-joking. 

"Hey, _fuck_ you," Lance said. 

I glanced up at him and frowned a little. I couldn't figure out if he was mad or not. 

Jesus, this guy needed to get little signs that said what he was feeling. Then again, the three most-used signs would probably be, 'horny,' 'smug,' and 'assholeish.' 

And dammit, I think I've just gone downhill from 'thinging.' 'Assholeish'? 

I blinked, startled when Lance leaned across me--his cigarette inches from my face, too. _Thanks_--and grabbed my shirt from the chair I had flung it on. He withdrew the card from the front pocket, uncapped a pen and wrote something down on the business card. 

"Happy?" he asked. 

"Thrilled," I said. 

He snorted, stuffed the card back in my shirt, and tossed it on the floor. 

"Thanks," I said, when he lay back down beside me. 

"Hmm," he said and kissed me. "Everythin' just got fucky, didn't it?" 

"What do you mean?" I asked, bewildered. 

"All serious-like," he said, smirking. 

"So you think that being serious is...fucky?" I asked. 

"What do _you_ think it is?" He arched an eyebrow. 

How about being serious is being serious? 

"Well, I think that it's...productive," I said. 

"Productivity is fucky," Lance said. 

"Do you think that _everything_ is fucky?" I asked wryly. 

"Yes," he said. 

"You're just saying that to mess with my mind," I said. 

"Exactly." He grinned. 

I stared at him. "That doesn't even make _sense_." 

"Makin' sense is overrated," he said flippantly. 

"That's what schmucks say," I said. "You know, the ones who can't make any sense at all on their _good_ days." 

He stared at me. "Did you just call me a _schmuck_?" 

"Why, yes, I believe I did," I said, feeling strangely pleased with myself. 

"Asswipe," he muttered. 

I chuckled nervously and subsided into an uneasy silence. Lance seemed more disgruntled than usual, and conversation was a little more awkward than it generally was. I wondered if it was because he didn't want me to leave and grinned a little to myself. Then Lance stretched a little and mumbled, 

"Crap cigarettes. How fuckin' much do I haveta pay for a decent pack?" 

Okay, maybe Lance didn't have enough depth to realize that soon I would no longer be an integral part of his life. 

Or maybe he just didn't care. 

_Bastard_. 

  


  


  


  


Behold the rare and ever-capricious rock star. A migratory species, most rock stars often live like platypuses, building a small nest underwater with a tunnel leading up to the ground for ventilation. Between concert seasons, the rock star rarely comes up for air and, instead, settles for nesting with its fellow bandmates while producing its next album. 

During this state of limbo wherein the rock star makes strange noises and does absolutely nothing productive--a process called "creative brainstorming"--the rock star is extremely irritable. It demands that its craving for cancerous, addictive substances be fulfilled, and its copious libido makes itself known again and again. When nicotine and sex are not enough to satiate the rock star, it has been known to seek out leather garments. Conversely, the rock star ordinarily avoids barbershops. 

This vague, aimless state is exactly when most experts dictate that hunters should stalk the rock star as prey. The suggested kinds of bait are edible underwear, acting aloof (and thus provoking the rock star to "mess" with your head), and talking about your cuddly youth in a hard-working yet loving Midwestern family. 

Once contact has been made, the rock star will choose a choice expletive and relentlessly repeat it over and over to establish its dominance. When-- 

"Ow!" I said, rubbing my head. 

He'd _smacked_ me! Jackass. 

"Chicken-shit," Lance said. 

As an example, one particular subspecies of rock star--classified as 'Alverseditca Lanceneferia'--has demonstrated time and time again that its favored expletive is 'chicken-shit.' 

"Jesus. What'd I do?" I grumbled. 

"Pay attention to the tour guide, sweetheart," he said, mock-sweetly. I glared at him. 

We were currently on a tour--what _kind_ of tour, I'm not sure, but we passed the Lincoln Memorial a few stops back, so I'm assuming it's just a standard Washington D.C. tour--and this time it was completely _not_ my fault. 

It wasn't! 

Tabitha had offered a day of fun, and I had been against accepting her alleged good-heartedness. And, naturally, since I'd been disturbed by the mere idea of it, Lance had graciously been enthusiastic about it. 

Before he discovered that the Day of Fun had been a Day of Fun that Tabitha had been trying to avoid. 

"So, if you didn't plan where to go," he'd asked, confused, "then who did?" 

"Chuck," she had said, trying to hide it behind a cough. 

"Jesus," I'd said at the same time Lance sighed, "Oh, fuck." 

In the end, Lance still blamed me. 

"It's not my fault," I hissed at him. 

"You should _know_ what reverse psychology does to me," he said, deliberately sounding slightly kinky. 

"I wasn't _trying_ to use reverse psychology," I said. "And how was I supposed to know that you're so neurotic, anyway?" 

"Go to hell," Lance said around a mouthful of peanuts he'd stolen from the lobby of our hotel. 

"I'd really prefer not to," I said mildly. 

He grinned at me and elbowed me in the ribs. 

"Let's blow this joint," he said out of the side of his mouth. 

Well, _that_ sounded wrong. 

"Aren't we meeting Mr. Xavier for lunch after this?" I asked miserably. 

"Yeah," Lance said. "So?" 

I felt like I was dating James Dean. 

"You know, I think you're trying just a little _too_ hard to 'fight The Man,'" I said. 

"Fuck off," he said. "Are you in or not?" 

I thought about having lunch. 

With Mr. Xavier. 

Mr. Xavier, who would probably have a tossed salad for an appetizer and then size me up to cut. 

I tried not to whimper. 

"I'm in," I muttered. Jesus, this was no way to live. I was like some kind of delinquent. 

With a press pass. 

A press pass for the wrong side of the tracks? 

"Bitchin'," Lance said. 

"Again with the 'bitchin','" I said. 

"Killer," he said. 

"Like Shamu with a hangover?" I suggested. 

He rolled his eyes. "We'll duck behind that giant dic--" 

"That's the _Washington_ Memorial," I hissed. 

"Oh," he said. He glanced at it appraisingly. "Well, I guess we all know what the chicks remember him for." 

"Jesus," I said. "That's no way to think about a man who had wooden teeth." 

"If he had wooden teeth," Lance replied, "do you think that he had a wooden--?" 

"_No_," I said. "I really don't." 

"That makes you really wonder, doesn't it," he continued. "I mean, if Pinocchio--" 

"_Pinocchio_?" I asked incredulously. "Why are you--?" 

"If Pinocchio had a wooden--" 

"_Lance_," I growled. 

"And every time he lied, it--" 

"_Lance_!" 

"Gives a whole new meaning to 'sportin' a woody,' doesn't it?" 

I glared at him. 

"What?" He tried to look innocuous. Which really didn't work, on account of how he was practically _smirking_. 

And old man with a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck shushed us and Lance made a cat noise. I sighed. 

"I can't take you _anywhere_," I said. 

"Reoowr," Lance said with a grin. 

Oka-y, I'm going to pretend you didn't make that noise, Mr. Lance Alvers. 

"So what's the plan, 007?" I asked. 

"Oh, no," he said. "My codename is 006." 

"What's mine?" I asked. 

You're not going to say-- 

"009, of course," he said. 

I rolled my eyes. 

"Jesus," I said. 

"Again with the 'Jesus,'" he said mockingly. 

"Shut up," I said, grinning a little. 

"Uh-huh," Lance said. "Anyways, you duck behind the woody and I'll jump into some fuckin' bushes or something." 

"_That_'s your brilliant plan?" I asked, annoyed. 

"Well, do _you_ have anythin' better?" he drawled, quirking an eyebrow. 

"Fine, fine," I sighed. "I don't understand why we have to be all sneaky about it _anyway_, though." 

"Where's the fun if we just fuckin' walk off?" he asked, grinning. 

"I didn't know that fighting The Man took so much work," I muttered. 

"Hey, man," Lance said, "The Man don't fool around." 

"_I_ think that The Man is rather playful," I said. "What with one of his more infamous running jokes: taxes." 

"The Man is a turdminer," he replied. "He sucks _ass_." 

"You're not going to start talking about the legalization of marijuana, are you--?" I asked. 

"Hemp for everyone!" Lance declared, startling the tour guide, a nice-looking blonde girl who glanced at him with puzzlement before continuing in a bubbly voice about apple trees and other happy things. 

"Jesus," I said. 

"_Jesus_ probably wore hemp," he told me. 

"That's _blasphemous_," I said, hiding a smile. 

"It ain't my fault that Jesus was a groovin' liberal," he said. 

"Oh, _Jesus_," I said, rubbing my temples. "I just had the worst mental image." 

Jesus with a halo for a hula-hoop--_grooving_ to Elton John. 

"What _kind_ of mental image?" Lance asked, looking curious. 

"It involves 'Crocodile Rock,'" I told him. 

"Fuck," he said and recoiled. "Keep your crazy shit to yourself, Summers." 

"Hey, I _like_ that song," I protested defensively. 

"You're here, you're queer, and you're _fa-a-a_bulous, too, hey?" he said, snickering. 

"Well," I said, sniffing airily, "I'll have you know that I never _did_ support that saying." 

"And why's that?" Lance asked, smirking. 

"Obviously, 'fabulous' doesn't rhyme with 'here' _or_ 'queer,'" I said, grinning a little. 

He snorted. "What, do you want it to be, 'We're here, we're queer, let's do a cheer!'?" 

"That might work," I agreed. 

"Man, I just had a mental image of you in a fuckin' _cheerleading_ outfit," Lance groaned. 

I stared at him. 

"And you said _my_ mental image was strange?!" I asked, horrified. 

"Aren't your people really 'in' with those fuckin' cheerleader types, anyways?" Lance asked, chuckling to himself. 

"My 'people'?" I said, laughing. "You make it sound like you haven't been trying to get into bed with me for the better part of this week, Mr. Alvers." 

"You misunderstood me," he said, arching an eyebrow with mock-seriousness. "I wasn't tryin' to get you in _bed_." 

"No?" I grinned. 

"No," he said. "I was tryin'...to...to..." 

"Ye-s?" I said, grinning a little wider. 

He scowled. 

"I'll come up with somethin' later," he promised. 

I laughed and an old couple turned around and shushed us very loudly. 

"Go back to Florida and get your dentures stuck to a fuckin' bagel," Lance sneered at them. 

"Jesus," I muttered and grabbed Lance's arm and hauled him behind a large, metal public mailbox. 

"Stop mocking the elderly," I said. 

"What's the elderly gonna do to stop me?" Lance replied, smirking. 

"The elderly are going to...well," I said and was interrupted by Lance, who cackled, 

"Are they gonna beat me with their fuckin' _canes_?" 

I rolled my eyes. 

"You're the most disrespectful person I've ever met," I said. 

"And yet you love me," Lance said with a grin. 

"Like one might grow fond of a rare type of fungus growing at the bottom of the refrigerator," I said, grinning back. 

"Oh, fuck off," he said, snickering, and stood up. He dusted himself off and glanced around. 

"Well, the good news is that we lost the Miami tour group from Hell," he said. "The bad news is that I'm fuckin' _bored_." 

If it's the _Miami_ tour group, then wouldn't they be from Florida and not from Hell? 

"Hmm," I said. "I'm sure we can drum up something to do." 

Anything was better than being Mr. Xavier's lunch--having lunch _with_ Mr. Xavier, that is. I suddenly had a troubling mental image of myself trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Then I'd be _really_ stuffed up the ass with something a lot more festive than a pole, which is something which Lance accuses me of every so often. Something that is completely untrue, by the way. I'm not _anal-retentive_. 

I'm meticulous. 

_Meticulous_. 

Which just means that I'm _cautious_. In a _non_anal-retentive kind of way, dammit. 

"Hey," Lance said, "let's go have sex somewhere public." 

"_No_," I said, glaring at him. I could still remember the photobooth incident, wherein a certain part of my anatomy developed an acute fear of exposure to sunlight and-backslash-or cameras. 

More acutely with cameras, to be accurate. 

"What, are you chicken-shit?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow at me. 

"I'd rather be chicken-shit than have _Mystique_ strangle me," I said pointedly. 

"Idiot," he said. He grinned and threw an arm around my shoulders as we began to walk; 

"Don't you know that _I_'ll fuckin' protect you?" 

I sighed and leaned my head against his shoulder. 

"Lance," I said, "I wouldn't trust you to protect my _goldfish_." 

"Well, fuck you," Lance said, snickering a little. He pushed me and I nearly fell into a...pirate? 

I stared. 

"Ow," said the pirate. 

"Sorry," I said and handed him something that had fallen due to Lance being a dumbass and pushing me. "Here's your eyepatch." 

'Sorry, here's your eyepatch'? 

Four words I never thought I'd ever say. 

"That's not an eyepatch," the pirate said, glaring at me and snatching the eyepatch back. "That's a wallet, you bloody git." 

I've never been called a git before, much like I haven't been called 'chicken-shit.' However, 'git' sounded much friendlier, probably because it also sounded British. 

"O-h," I said. 

"Hey," Lance said, "there's a fuckin' souvenir shop across the street. T-shirts!" 

"I'm sorry," I said. 

"Feck you," the pirate said and pulled out what looked like a giant pixie stix from his back pocket. I stared at it. 

"Did you get that from an--amusement park?" I asked, laughing nervously. 

"My little sister bought it for me," the pirate said. 

"O-oh," I said uneasily. "How nice." 

"The wallet was a feckin' _present_ from her." The pirate advanced on me. 

"I'm sorry?" I tried. 

"She 'as terminal cancer, you numbskull," the pirate said rather threateningly. 

Jesus, this was a very mentally unbalanced pirate. 

"I'm...sorry?" I repeated. 

And then the wrath of a thousand gods fell upon me like a rainfall of torrid _flame_. 

In the form of a giant, plastic tube filled with sugar, that is. 

"You're choking me," I said, gagging. Jesus, I'd just inhaled at least three quarts of cherry-flavored powder. 

"I hate you," the pirate said. 

"I'm serious," I said. "I can't--breathe." 

"That's too feckin' bad, idn't it?!" the pirate yelled. 

This was a very mentally unbalanced, violent, disturbingly _effective_ pirate. 

"Could you please...stop...pouring _sugar_ down my throat?" I asked weakly. 

_Jesus_, couldn't he take out his anger on something else? Maybe take up hip-hop? Rap? 

I suddenly had a mental image of Eminem dressed up like a pirate. 

"Oh, Christ," I mumbled. 

Finally, the pirate wandered off--having gotten bored with burying me in pink powder, apparently--and I lay on the sidewalk, trying to regain my breath. A few minutes later, Lance appeared directly over me. 

"I got a new shirt," he said. He pointed at it. 

'Privates Investigator.' 

"I hate you," I said. 

I quietly took refuge in the knowledge that all this sugar was going to work its way through my system eventually, and Lance would have to deal with it. 

Unaware of his future agony, Lance just snickered at me and helped me up. 

"You look like the tooth fairy took a shit on you, man," he said. 

I glared at him. 

"May ten thousand pirates with twenty thousand pixie stix attack you with the rage and fury of a million angry...pirates," I said. 

"_That_ was coherent," Lance said, looking rather smug. 

"Shut up and walk, you Mick Jagger-wannabe," I muttered. 

He gasped and tried to look offended. Then asked with amusement, 

"Mick Jagger? You mean it?" 

"Shut up," I said. 

"Hey, you called me a wannabe," Lance said as we began walking. "Does that mean I get to go on Ricky Lake or Jerry Springer or some fuck like that?" 

"No," I said. "They don't want you." 

"Wow, you're pissy," Lance said, arching an eyebrow. 

"And I wonder what could cause that," I said sarcastically. "Maybe _getting assaulted by a circus escapee_?" 

"Nah," he said, smirking. "_That_ can't be it." 

Smirk all you want. I can already feel the sugar coursing through my body... 

"So where are we going now?" I asked, dusting myself off and leaving a sprinkled trail of pink behind us. 

Jesus, I was going to be hacking up pixie stix for the next three months of my life. 

"Bar," Lance said. 

"No-o-o," I said, glaring at him. "I've _seen_ how you handle bars." 

"Not good?" he asked, grinning. 

"Not good," I said. 

"Not bad, _I_ think," he said. 

"You think badly," I said. 

"I think badly for thinking it's not bad?" he asked. 

"It's bad to think it's not bad," I said. 

"Do you play Scrabble much?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow. 

"Why?" I asked suspiciously. 

"Why not?" he said, quirking the other eyebrow. 

"Have you always been able to do that?" I asked, gesturing toward his eyebrows. 

"Why do _you_ want to know?" he asked. 

"What the _hell_ are we doing?" I asked, starting to laugh. 

"What do _you_ think we're doing?" he shot back. 

"A very one-sided press conference, maybe?" I suggested. 

"Asshole," he said. 

"You lose," I said, pointing at him. 

"Asshole," he repeated and punched my shoulder. 

"I think you're losing your touch, Mr. Alvers," I said triumphantly. 

"Wanna find out?" he asked, smirking. "We could go find a fuckin' photobooth or somethin'." 

"No," I said. "_No_." 

"Ah, the sound of absolute rejection," he sighed with mock-melodrama. 

"Something you must be familiar with," I said, smiling. 

"I think that pirate back there beat some bitch into you," Lance said. 

"I hate you," I said. 

"No, you don't," he said, grinning. 

"No," I agreed, "I don't. I _loathe_ you." 

"Ooh, breakin' out Mr. Webster, hey?" Lance snickered. 

"I _despise_ you," I said. 

"You're startin' to really fuckin' wound me, Summers," he said. 

"I think you suck eggs," I said. 

Jesus, I can't believe I just said that. And neither could Lance, it seems, because he just started laughing. 

"Jesus," I said. "Every time I talk to you, it's like I can actually hear my IQ points dropping." 

"Do they make a fun sound?" he sneered. 

"They make a very sad sound?" I suggested. 

"Sad--like gothic poetry?" he asked, still snickering. 

"Don't you have to go do...band-things?" I asked archly. 

"Don't you have to go do reporter-things?" he retorted. 

"It's _journalist_," I said. 

"Ha--I win," he said. 

_Bastard_! 

  


  


  


  


I was feeling better than I'd ever felt in my entire life. That, and I'd successfully stolen Lance's Buddha from him and was now parading it around the hotel-room table. Across from me, Lance was slumped down in his chair, scowling. 

"Eastern religions," I told him, "are a lot more enlightened than many Western religions. They're very focused, you see, and they really try to combine everyday life with, you know, religion-type things." 

"You haven't stopped talking for fifty fuckin' minutes straight," he said. 

"There's lots of things to talk about," I said. "Lots and lots of things. 

"_God_!" he said. "Even _sex_ isn't worth this!" He paused, then asked slyly, "Heyyy, wanna sex?" 

"You can't use that as a verb," I said thoughtfully. 

He snorted and tried to paw my lap. I wriggled away and sought refuge on the couch. Buddha came with me and started his own miniature, porcelain reign over the cushions. 

"Hey," I said, affronted. "No sex while I'm under the influence." 

"Influence of what?" Lance asked, exasperated. 

"Lance is very silly," I told the Buddha. I was beginning to see why Lance was so attached to it. 

"Summers," Lance growled. 

"Sugar," I said. "Pixie stix? I had three tons forcibly shoveled down my throat, remember?" 

"God," he said. "You're fucked-up." 

"This is all your fault," I said placidly. "You could've helped out when I was being assaulted." 

"You weren't _assaulted_," he said. 

"Just like you aren't getting any," I said. "Isn't that funny?" 

"Fuck you," he said. 

"I've never understood that saying," I said. "Since when could we put a hanging verb in front of a random pronoun and say that it's insulting? It's only insulting through context, isn't it? I couldn't say, 'Run you.' or 'Read you,' and make any sense. Any _insulting_ sense, at that. Could I?--" 

"_Summers_," Lance groaned, and let his head fall to the table with a very audible thunk. I tried not that laugh. 

"_Shut_. _Up_," Lance said, punctuating each word with a bang of his forehead on the table. "Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!" 

"That has to hurt," I commented. 

"Fuck you," he said again very darkly. 

"Do you know what I hate?" I said. "I hate it when people randomly make up words--" 

"Thinging!" Lance yelled. 

"Like Bennifer," I continued, ignoring him. "What _is_ that? _Bennifer_. Is it too much trouble to say 'Ben and Jennifer'? Actually, I find the whole topic of celebrity relationships reprehensible," I added and turned on the television, continuing as I channel-surfed, 

"Since when did proper journalism include the realm of tabloids? There are a ton of other things we could write about in the Arts & Entertainment section. I mean, I understand it's popular culture, but--you've been staring at me for the past twenty seconds trying to figure out if that's actually a term or not, haven't you?" 

"Mm-hmm," Lance said rather dully, sounding like I had actually reached into him and devoured his soul by talking so much. I chortled to myself. 

"It's a term," I said helpfully. "They ran a very long article about it in the Washington Post." 

"Hmm," Lance said. 

"Did you win the bet with yourself?" I asked politely. 

"Yeah," he said, paused, then added, "I guess I woulda won anyway." 

"Everyone's a winner when you make a bet with yourself," I said. "I wonder if we could find a way to rig the stock market like that. That'd give a whole different meaning to 'inside trading,' though, if you traded with yourself. I guess it wouldn't work, because it'd be like recirculating plasma when what you _really_ need is an outside transfusion--" 

"God, Summers," Lance said, staring at me with morbid fascination. "You talk like a chick." 

"I do not," I said, not worrying myself incredibly since I knew I could just sic Jean on him for saying that. She'd probably tear his leg off and beat him with it, though, so I ought to probably first tell her that I wanted him intact. 

"Yeah, you really do," he said. "I'll get Jubes for you, and you can have a fuckin' bonding session or some fuck." 

"I don't want to have a bonding session with Ms. Lee," I said, proud of myself for remembering to call her 'Ms. Lee.' "I want to have a bonding session with you." 

"God," Lance said again. "You're just trying to get back at me, aren't you?" 

"Yes," I said smugly. 

"You're _evil_," he said. "Fuckin' _evil_." 

"Not so," I protested. "I'm _wicked_." 

I giggled to myself. Lance stared at me blankly. 

"Like a pun. It can be taken two ways, see," I explained, when it was obvious that the blatant amusement-factor of 'wicked' had rocketed over his poor, dense head like a hummingbird in frenzied flight. "Since it's slang?" 

"That wasn't a wicked joke," Lance said bleakly. 

"You look very down," I commented. "Peppermint?" 

I offered him a small, plastic-wrapped peppermint. Out of spite, I'd secured several dozen in the lobby after the concierge accidentally trapped me in the turnstile. I'd had three so far, and they were fabulous. They melted in your mouth. Like M&Ms. 

This particular train of thought prompted me to say thoughtfully, "They ought to have candy coating, you know." 

"What?" Lance asked, watching the procured pile of peppermints with trepidation. 

"These," I said, waving a particularly crumbly peppermint before offering it to Buddha. Perpetually cheerful (since his face _is_ painted in a permanently rosy-cheeked smile), the Buddha graciously accepted my gift and watched it from his percy atop the couch's armrest. 

"Why?" Lance scowled. "So you can fuckin' get hopped up even _more_?" 

"No," I said, grinning. Lance was not very on top of it tonight, was he? --More puns for me! "So they can be marketed as 'M&Ms with a _kick_!'" 

Lance made a rather anguished sound and buried his face in his arms, which were crossed on the table. 

"When's your concert?" I asked. "Or are you planning on skipping this just like you skipped the autographing session and press conference?" 

"Fuck off," he muttered. "We're leavin' in ten or fifteen minutes, says Tabby the Terrific--" 

"Tablature?" I asked. 

"What?" he asked with confusion. 

"Tabby the Terrific _Tablature_," I said. "That would be a great Fischer Price toy. 'Tablets o' fun!'" 

"Depends on what kind of fuckin' tablets are you talkin' about," Lance grumbled. 

"Substance abuse is bad," I said. "I'm here as a live example. _Just say no_." 

"You can't abuse _sugar_," Lance said. 

"You can abuse _anything_," I said. 

He paused, then agreed, "Yeah, but sugar is particularly hard to abuse." 

"Not when it's being forced down your throat," I said. "Then it's very easy. You just lay back and--" 

"Oh, suck it," Lance said, laughing a little, but still managing to sound incredibly disgruntled. 

"No, you don't have to suck at all," I said. "It just comes down and pours into your throat. And it burns, too," I added. "Like throwing up backwards." 

"Might I mention how fuckin' _pornographic_ you sound right now?" he asked, his face still pillowed on his arms. He held up an arm as if he were in a classroom, waiting to be called on. 

"No," I said, "because then I'll stop talking to go self-flagellate, and _then_ who would be here to entertain you?" 

"I think _your_ definition and _my_ definition of entertainment are so fuckin' different, it ain't even funny," Lance said glumly. 

"That's okay," I said. "We can recalibrate your definition, since it's dirty and wrong." 

He snorted. "Wrong?" 

"Ah, but you don't deny the dirtiness," I said, turning slightly on the sofa so that I was facing him. I pointed at him and arched an eyebrow, "The court finds against you, Lance Alvers." 

"On what grounds?" Lance said rather offhandedly. 

"You wallpaper your apartment with leopard spots, don't you?" I accused. 

"Actually, the walls in my apartment are a pleasant shade of fuckin' white," Lance replied. 

"I don't think that shade is available at Home Depot," I remarked. 

"What shade, 'fuckin' white'?" Lance snickered. 

"Exactly that shade," I said. 

"Hmm," Lance said then. He leered at me. "Does this mean that the court will be punishing me?" 

"Yes," I said. "You have to carry my luggage to the bus." 

"Is that a euphemism?" he asked hopefully. 

"Sorry," I said. 

"Dammit," he said. 

"Well," I said then, quirking an eyebrow. I grinned and gestured toward my suitcase, all packed up and ready to go. 

"Fuck you," Lance said without much malice. At first, I didn't think he'd do it, but then he did, grabbing it by the handle and swinging it over his shoulder. 

"You ready to go, chicken-shit?" he asked almost cheerfully. I say 'almost,' because he perpetually seemed to be vaguely disgruntled. 

"Just about," I said, and carefully gathered my mints, stored them in my jacket pockets, and grabbed the Buddha. 

"Idiot," he muttered. 

"And how do you spell that?" I asked jovially as I walked past him. 

"Moron," he said. 

"You know, there's an order these things go in," I said. "I think 'idiot' is the lowest, so you're out of order." 

"Asshole," he said. 

"Assholes can be intelligent, can't they?" 

"Not if they're asscones with bullshitting on top," he replied. 

"Hmm," I said, pushing the elevator button and crossing my arms. "That makes sense." 

"Hey, Summers," he said. "Did you ever dream of goin' to fuckin' medical school?" 

"I considered it once or twice, I think," I said. 

"Hmm," he said, and I almost laughed, thinking that maybe he was parodying me after I was parodying him. "If you'd gone to medical school and dropped out to become a fuckin' dentist..." 

He trailed off, and I frowned impatiently, feeling a little more jittery than I usually was. 

"Then what?" I asked curiously. 

"Oh, nothing," he said. "I'm just trying to imagine your name with a D.D.S after it." 

"D.D.S," I repeated, trying it out for fit in my head. 

"Yeah," Lance said. "Doctorate in Dipshitting." 

"That's not very polite," I informed him. 

"Go fuck yourself," he replied, then added, "And let me watch." 

"Speaking of shit, though," I said. "I've been thinking about you and your shitade." 

"Yeah?" he asked rather noncommittally. 

The elevator doors slid open and we stepped inside. 

"Hate elevators," he muttered when we did. "Do you know how many fuckin' horror movies started by somebody stepping into a fuckin' elevator?" 

"Many, I'd imagine," I said. "I think that your shitade with the shit and things is rather cliché." 

"How about this, then," Lance said. "When life gives you lemons, squirt them in someone else's fuckin' eye." 

"That's horrible," I said, smiling. "Original, though. I think." 

"Horrible and original," he said. "Like Colonel Sander's botched recipes?" 

"We've just devolved into a conversation using many pop cultural references," I said. 

"I saw a Simpsons episode about Colonel Sander's," he said in response. "God, I love the Simpsons." 

"It's a political cartoon," I said. 

"Whatever," he replied. 

The doors opened on the lobby floor, and we trooped across. Well, _I_ trooped. Lance dragged his feet like a derelict. Fortunately for him, though, I could already feel my sugar high waning. 

It was slightly disappointing, as I had been enjoying messing with Lance's mind. However, I decided that maybe it was a good thing, since I had to be in top journalistic shape for the concert. Not that there would be much to report on. 

"Lance," I said then, pausing just before the turnstiles. I stared outside. "Where's the bus?" 

"Fuck," Lance said. 

"They can't have left without you," I said. "Maybe--Forge and...?" 

"No," he said, putting down my suitcase and scowling at the turnstile and empty curb beyond. "Forge isn't _that_ fucky. Even if he were screwin' Weasel, he'd remember." 

A disturbing mental image came to mind of Forge running up to the tour bus with nothing on except a lone shoe and a pair of boxer shorts. Yikes. 

"That's what I figure," I said. "Where's Ms. Smith and the others, then?" 

"I have no fuckin' clue," he replied. 

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. 

"_Fuck_," Lance said again. 

I tried to think logically about where the bus and the rest of the band could've gone, but all I could think of were scenarios where Mystique acted like Wile E. Coyote and pushed the bus down a hill, thinking that I was in it and acting out of vengeance. I also wondered if, maybe, the bus had actually imploded in on itself, attempting to end its miserably fruity existence. My final conclusion was very simple, though: 

Holy cow, somebody _took_ the _Mystery Machine_! 

"Jesus," I said, feeling an overwhelming sadness for all eight-year-old Scooby Doo fans. 

"Fuck," Lance said. 

"Not that as much," I said, and all the eight-year-olds in my head concurred emphatically. 

"Those flying fucks," he said. 

The eight-year-olds recoiled in horror at such language, and I just shook my head and repeated, 

"_Jesus_." 

Not to be outdone, Lance said, "Jesus _fuck_." 

And though I don't exactly know what that means, I have to say that I agree. 

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


~tbc 

  


  


  


  


  


  



	9. Print Document

Title: Readme.txt 

Part: 9/9 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: PG-13 

Pairings: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance; Weasel/Forge, Forge/Weasel 

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. 

Spoilers: Nada. 

Warnings: Slash (m/m relationship), AU (which means **Alternate Universe**, for those who don't know.) 

  


  


Notes: Well, it's the end. The--End, scrawled in purple magic marker on a billboard that's sporting an unseemly splotch of graffiti that reads, "ANTISTHENES WAS HERE." It's been a fun and wacky ride. And um. *pulls a Jack O'Neil* I have the feeling that I should say something meaningful and inspirational here... 

... 

... 

... 

Nope, I got nothing. (Let's just do it?) 

Sorry to say that there's yet some more angst in this chapter--right off at the beginning, too. Hope it's not too much of a downer, though I guess some people are rooting for angst (;. Also, huge, huge, _huge_ thanks go to Morwen O'Conner (Psst. Check out her fics, yo (;) for helping me storyboard this chapter. 

  


  


Additional Notes: I'd like to thank all of my reviewers and supporters. This has been a huge, novel-sized journey, and I couldn't've done it without you all. You make me feel like a tru-u-u-e w-o-ma-a-an...and not like JC Penny does, either (; 

I kid. >.> I'm sorry, I had, like, two hours of sleep last night, so I'm just a t_eensy_ bit incoherent. Anyway, this one's for you guys :D 

'You guys' being: Absolute Alcohol, Agar, Alex, BatE, BlackCat9, Doomkitty1, Edainme, Flick-chan, Imhotep Ardeth Bey, Katherine, Katreon of Team Socket, Kit, Laureate, LB, Lyo, Mata, Melly, Melodie, Mercuria, MiracleChick, Morwen O'Conner, N, Nine Bucks, Olhado, Omega Orange, Periwinka, Phoenix, Pyromaniac, Risty, S, ShadowCreature, Shawna, Shindo, Shirt_Ninjas Impersonator, sugar.coated, Suzaka, Swythangel, Tera, TurtleClarinet, and last but not least, VertigoMesmerizer. 

Holy crap, alphabetization! Anyway, thanks again, and I hope to see you again in another fic :D 

  


  


Additional-er Notes: The mandatory and ever-hopeful, **Please go to Biff!** Which is 'Blind Fish Archive," that is. It's under the magical, spooky skeleton at www.geeky-pirate.net. We're looking forward to your submissions! :D 

Also, I'd just like to say that the Readmeverse has taken over my mind like a virus that's the twice-removed cousin of an STD, so I will probably be writing many spin-offs and sidestories. If you have any suggestions, feel free to drop me a line at chanc@uakron.edu or you can just comment in my fic blog (the URL is up in my profile). I'll gladly take any suggestions into consideration :D 

  


  


Enjoy and Review!!!...please? 

  


  


  


  


-- 

"Well, this fuckin' sucks ass through a crazy straw," Lance said. 

I sighed and rubbed a hand over my face. 

"They went to Wendy's," I said dully. "I can't--believe--they--went...to _Wendy's_." 

We were currently sitting on the curb in front of the hotel with our luggage, waiting for the rest of the band to come back in 'just a minute' (according to Jubilee). Well, it'd been _twenty_ minutes, and I don't know about Lance, but _I_ hadn't seen any sign of them. 

Lousy liars. 

"It ain't like we're gonna be late or anything," Lance said. I glared at him. 

"You're pretty laid back about this, aren't you?" I said. "Think of the _fans_." 

"Did you know," he said, "that half the fans aren't even there for the fuckin' music?" 

"Of course they are," I said. "Why else are they there?" 

"A quarter of the fans are there for the Jono," he said. "The other quarter of the fans is there for fuckin' show." 

The headlining band, Chamber, was a one-man act with rotating accompaniment. Kurt tells me that lead singer-slash-guitarist of Chamber, Jono Starsmore, wasn't the only one with the idea, but it was still something worth noting. Dutifully, I 'noted' it, and moved on. 

Jono kind of scares me, you see. He reminds me of Rogue. Rogue, who happens to petrify me beyond belief. So I generally stay away from him. I actually haven't seen him anywhere besides onstage, so it's entirely possible that he wouldn't want to talk to me either. In any case, I think I would have a better chance of not getting melted into a random pile of slightly-more-than-crispy journalist if I didn't talk to him. 

Also, after catching a glimpse of our favorite, elusive goth, I now have this theory that Jubilee didn't actually steal Rogue's makeup, but was covering up for _Jono_, who, in fact, wears entirely too much eyeliner. Spooky. 

The only thing that Jono's ever said to me--and believe me, I try not to think about it often--is, "Move, I need a napkin." 

Just that. Deadpan. In a strangely clear voice, too. And I say "strangely" because he had this weird...gauzy...black thing over his mouth and chin? 

Jesus, I don't know. I've stopped trying to understand anything. 

"So do you get a lot of fanmail?" I asked after a moment of silence, watching an ant transverse the road and climb up the curb. It crawled around Lance's thumb and headed straight for the concierge's little podium. 

Lance snorted. "Not too much." 

"Not too much?" I said, grinning a little in disbelief. 

"Well, okay, we get shitloads," he admitted. "But it's not like they're about anythin' real fuckin' deep or anything." 

"What do you do with them, then?" I asked. 

"We answer some of them, update our FAQ page, and Johnny makes clothes outta the rest o'them," he said. 

I had a mental image of Johnny dressed in a waistcoat made entirely out of notebook paper and a flap over his ass that said, 'Love me.' in all caps. 

"How perfectly wonderful," I said. 

"How perfectly sarcastic," he replied pointedly. He sounded awfully amused. 

"How perfectly observational," I said, smiling. 

"How perfectly...your mom," he said. 

I grinned. 

"Ran out of things to say?" I asked. 

"Fuck you, man," he chuckled and shifted a little, tilting his head so that he was studying the road. 

I grinned and started to reply when I heard a quiet rustling in the bushes. I blinked and glanced over quickly. I didn't see anything, but of course I knew what it was. Or, _who_ it was, rather. 

"Oh, Jesus," I muttered. 

"Myst-ique," Lance sing-songed when he noticed my concern. "She's comin' to getcha, Summers." 

"That's not funny, Lance," I said. 

He smirked and called, "Hey, Raven, why don't you come out and say hello?" 

There was silence. 

He shrugged. 

"Maybe she left," I said nervously. 

"Maybe she has to take a piss," he replied. 

I frowned and tried to convey an ambience of general dissatisfaction. Not having picked up my telepathic memo, Lance hummed to himself, seeming quite content. 

"I hate your fans," I said darkly. 

"Then I guess it's good you're not a fan," he said lightly. 

"Huh," I said. I cleared my throat awkwardly. 

Lance sighed and kind of cocked his head to the side, staring forward in a listless way. 

"What the hell is it?" he asked, sounding somewhat amused. 

"Back in Chicago," I said slowly, "Ms. Lee said that--they thought you might get into a relationship with, uh, some of the--journalists? That've interviewed you before, I mean." 

He didn't reply--just sat there on the curb, leaning back on his hands. 

"I don't mean to be nosy," I said quickly. "I was just wondering--since, you know..." 

"Why do you want to know?" he said then, very quietly. 

"We're a--you know, _thing_," I said, a little exasperated. "I mean--we can't just...have _sex_ all the time." 

"Why the fuckin' hell not?" he said, turning a little and grinning at me crookedly. 

"I--" I blinked, then laughed. 

Oh, _Jesus_. Why didn't I think of that before? 

He arched an eyebrow questioningly. 

"If sucking on things were considered the epitomizing act of love," I said, not able to contain a smile, "then lollipops would be pretty damn romantic." After a moment's thought, I added, "But they're not, are they?" 

Lance laughed and shook his head. "Lollipops. Who the fuck says 'lollipops' anymore?" 

"I do," I said, pretending to be insulted. 

"Mm-hmm," he said, and returned to studying the pavement. 

I hesitated, then asked, "Did you?" 

"Did I what?" he said, his words spoken into his mouth and coming out sounding lazy and muffled. 

"Get--_involved_ with anyone else from the media?" I said, a sinking feeling spreading a chill from the pit of my stomach upward. 

Jesus, just say _no_, Lance, would you? Just say no, and we can get on our lives. 

I frowned. He was probably deliberately being troublesome. 

"What's it matter to you?" he said, just as evasive as he'd been before. 

I sighed with frustration and shifted so I could turn to look at him. The sun had started to sink below the horizon and was casting a cityscape of shadows over his face, and for a brief moment, I was completely convinced that the shadows were there _just_ so some deity could smack me in the forehead with the word '_enigmatic_.' 

"It matters to me," I said sharply, "because we're--" 

"We're what," he said, still not looking at me. "We're--in a fuckin' working relationship?" 

"We're _together_," I said quietly. 

"What're you puttin' in this article of yours?" he asked then, looking up and ahead. "What's your fuckin' _angle_, _Mr_. Summers?" 

"I don't know yet," I said, startled. "I've got all the notes--I mean, I _know_ my angle, but I haven't put it _together_ yet--" 

"Fuck that," he said. 

He stood up, and I looked dumbly at him. Jesus, where the hell was this coming from? He'd seemed fine just minutes before, and now he was flipping out? 

I would've briefly considered the merits of Lance _probably_ being bipolar, but I was in too much shock. 

"Fuck that," he repeated, looking more pissed off than I'd seen him yet. "That's just it, idn't it?" 

"What's it?" I protested. "I don't know what--" 

"You've known your angle from the fuckin' start," he said, with a sort of ridiculous calmness--the kind that someone had when he'd practiced what he wanted to say over and over and over. "You _knew_ what you were gonna write." 

"And how do you figure that?" I snapped, automatically standing up as well. "How do you figure that I knew it? I didn't, Lance--I had _no_ idea. Music's not my--" 

"Oh, _fuck you_, Summers," he said loudly. "Fuck you!" 

"What the hell is this about?" I demanded. 

He shoved my suitcase at me. 

"You left it unzipped," he said in a low voice. 

I looked down. There was a sheaf of papers curling a little in layers. The first words I saw when I looked down were from the prep file Pietro'd given me. I read them numbly and remembered the conversation that I'd had with him--the conversation that nearly mirrored the bullet points on the file: 

Get in touch with the lead, hone in on details, get underneath and analyze, figure out-- 

"It's not what it looks like," I said bleakly. 

"I knew it," Lance just said. "I knew it from the fuckin' _beginning_." 

Jesus. What the hell was he talking about? From the beginning?--I-- 

"It's not what it looks like," I repeated. 

_Jesus_. 

"Just business as usual?" he said, laughing harshly. "It was just _fuckin'_ business as usual, yeah?" 

"No, I--" I started, and he cut me off with an impatient wave of his hand. 

"Read the press release, Summers," he said. "Read the fuckin' _press release_, talk to my fuckin' _manager_, and _stay_ the _fuck_ away from me." 

All without yelling. 

I stared at him. 

He stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets and walked away. Slouching. 

And not looking back at me. 

Not one glance. 

"Jesus," I said. 

I felt the porcelain hardness of the small Buddha statuette in the pocket of my slacks, and I pulled it out. 

I grinned slightly and tried not to feel just a little lost. 

He'd forgotten the gift Jubilee gave him. 

I tucked it into the front pocket of his overnight bag and sat down on the curb again, my suitcase next to me. 

I wrapped my arms around my knees. 

And waited. 

  


  


  


  


Saturday and Sunday passed without much event. Jubilee, Johnny and Tabitha acted as if nothing happened--though Jubilee did look questioningly at me once or twice--and I sat up front with Forge. I'd resolved my uncertainty about their six-years-difference relationship, and decided that it seemed fine, even if Weasel _was_ a frightening, needs-to-be-bubblewrapped nineteen-year-old. I figure that as long as his blood pressure doesn't skyrocket and his head implodes or something that everything is fine. 

Anyway, so everyone seemed to be fine with me. Everyone except for Lance, of course. Not one to compromise, debate, or anything that involved actual intelligent conversation, he either avoided or ignored me for the rest of the trip. He actually disappeared at one point, and I couldn't find him anywhere. At first, I thought he'd locked himself in the back with Rogue, and after several hours, I built up my courage to go and ask her. But when I did, all she did was grunt and glare at me, very obviously saying that he wasn't there. 

And so I checked with Jubilee. And she didn't know where he was either. He wasn't on a bus, he wasn't on a train. He wasn't on a bike, he wasn't on a plane. 

And then I realized that he'd probably gone to ride with Jono, which was just playing dirty. It also broke the nice rhyming of my internal monologue. 

Jesus, though. I couldn't decide if I was mad at him or if I was mad at Pietro for causing this kind of misunderstanding to begin with. All I knew, though, was that no matter whose fault this whole thing was, I was feeling more dejected than I had felt in pretty much all my life, as cliché as it sounds. It's right up there with the first time we moved, and I had accidentally left my Batman action figure back at the old house. (It was an experience that has scarred me and still remains with me even now, seventeen years later.) It felt like our relationship had already ended even before it had begun. 

Another thing I knew was that my brief relationship with grunge rocker Lance Alvers, lead singer of rising breakthrough band-of-the-year Antisthenes, was at an end. I wondered if I'd look back on it as a sordid affair--something that should've never happened. It didn't seem real. I mean, come on. Who the hell gets into a relationship with a _rock star_, anyway? It's right up there with 'rocket scientist.' _No_ one's a rock star. 

However, I _had_ liked Lance. I'd liked him enough to want to get to know him, and I'd done a pretty damn good job juggling our relationship and a story assignment without letting one interfere with the other. 

So what if I'm a journalist? It doesn't matter, right? I'd expect _Lance_ of all people to not really give a damn anyway. But there he was going on about how I'd had some--some _secret_ agenda all along. And I _hadn't_. I'd been _completely_ honest from the beginning. _He_ was the one who lied about everything. Absolutely _everything_. And then came the kicker: 

Who was _he_ to say that our relationship was over, anyway? I hadn't been doing anything wrong--if anything, _I_ should be the one having serious issues with our relationship as it were. 

But no. Instead, Mr. I'm A Rock Star, Suck Me gets to decide it's been fun, but now he has places to be, people to do?! What the hell is _that_? 

In any case, I was determined to correct this particularly infuriating misunderstanding. Or at least end things on _my_ terms. And maybe punch him a few times, too. 

At least, that was the plan. 

"This might be a little more difficult than I imagined," I said to myself. 

The tour bus drove away, Jubilee and Johnny pressed up to the back and waving like maniacs. I waved back tentatively and turned, trudging back to good ol' reality. 

And a half-empty office. 

"Mr. Summers," I heard Pietro call, and I glanced around, grimacing. 

"Jesus," I said, "everyone really cleaned out, didn't they?" 

"Thank God you made it back," Pietro said. He looked a little ragged around the edges. 

What's the matter, Mr. Maximoff? Haven't gotten into bed with any secretaries lately? 

"I'm fine," I said. "Really. No mono, no nothing. I guess I left before the bug got around," I added. 

"Good, good," Pietro said distractedly. "Your article?" 

"Here," I said, holding out the manila folder I'd put my article and my notes in. 

"Fantastic," Pietro said. "I'll get back to you on that." 

And he vanished into his office. I walked around for a little, wondering if Bobby was slinking around and fiddling with the locks in his apartment or if he'd actually come back to work. When I discovered that both his cubicle and the watercooler were abandoned, I just wandered back to my own cubicle. My good ol' cubicle. With my good ol' computer with good ol'...a hundred eighty-four unread messages. O-kay, getting out of my cubicle now. 

Pietro finished going over my article in a surprisingly short amount of time, presumably because he didn't _have_ anything to do with no staff. He called me into his office, and when I got there, he was just sitting there, staring at his desk with a sort of pensive look. I sat down and watched him apprehensively. Jesus, I could feel a million hacks coming. 

Finally, he leaned back and looked up at me, my article in his hands. 

"No." Pietro let the draft slip from his fingers, leaned back and rolled his shoulders forward then back. The unstapled papers of my article fanned out slightly and hit the desk with soft slaps, nearly inaudible. He arched an eyebrow, and, tucking his pencil behind his left ear, he inspected the wall directly behind me. 

"No?" I blinked. It was just over a thousand words, which was an issue with length, really, but I'd been led to believe that it wouldn't matter too much. Give me some guidelines, would you, Associated Press? 

"No," Pietro said again, sounding rather exasperated. 

He hadn't even bothered slashing anything out or commenting on an out-of-place quotation here or a run-on sentence there. In fact, he hadn't even taken a second glance at my article until I nodded toward it, asking, 

"What did I do wrong?" 

"I'm disappointed in you, Mr. Summers," Pietro replied. "What did you do wrong? _All_ of it." 

"All of it?" I stared at him helplessly. "Why--" 

"You've never written a feature story for our arts and entertainment section before, have you?" he interrupted impatiently, waving off whatever questions I had. 

"Well, no, but I--" 

"You probably thought it wasn't all that different from a regular news story, correct?" 

I was beginning to get annoyed. "Yes, I just thought--" 

"Now, generally you'd be right. On the spot, you know." Here, Pietro J. Maximoff grinned at me almost conspiratorially. He leaned forward, the sticky leather covering of his chair--a needless expense --crinkling a little at the motion. 

"However, I think it's time we bend the rules a little," he said. 

"Bend the rules?" I repeated. At this point, I had become aware that I was beginning to sound like one of those toys that kids played with; what was it called? Oh, that's right: A yak bak. Fabulous. 

"You know, do some touch-up on the A&E section." Pietro's teeth were far too white in the dim lighting of his office. I was beginning to feel a little antsy. I didn't like seeing things through a haze; I wanted to either see things or not. Fluorescent lights or absolute darkness. Black or white. Vanilla or chocolate. Strawberry or...hm. I'm not sure what the opposite of strawberry would be. Maybe...? 

"You mean maybe add a few columns or change the focus?" I asked. 

"Kind of," Pietro said slyly. He's a very clever man. A little too clever and a little too ambitious--all in the wrong way. In my opinion, that is. 

"I'm thinking a total change from Ororo Munroe's pristine reign of absolute, mind-numbing boredom," Pietro said with an inexhaustible air. "Come on, Mr. Summers. I was bored near tears! You can't tell me you _weren't_." 

I didn't like where things were going. 

"I thought the way Ms. Munroe organized the newspaper was fine," I said, a little defensively. Ms. Munroe was an acquaintance of mine and a better boss than Pietro was turning out to be. And that _isn't_ just my opinion. 

"Fine?" Pietro asked, his voice rising marginally with incredulity. "_Please_. It could've withstood some change--it could've withstood _a lot_ of change." 

Again, he leaned back, looking bored. Pietro looked very young in his suit and tie even though his hair is so blond it was almost white. As if conscious of such, he reached up and loosened his tie. 

"Did his father drink?" he asked, and I was immediately taken aback. "Was he abused? Did he have sisters? Were _they_ abused? Did he ever have to live in a shelter?" 

"Wait, _what_?" I asked, barely thinking before I interrupted the stream of even questions. 

"You heard me, Mr. Summers," Pietro said. "Where's the good stuff? The dirt?" 

"We're a _newspaper_," I started. 

"What we _are_," Pietro interjected, "is a literary organization of the public domain, and frankly, Mr. Summers," here he clasped his hands, "this is the sort of stuff that people are interested in." 

"But, I--it's--that's _sensationalism_," I sputtered. 

"Exactly," Pietro said, pointing a finger at me. "Exactly. It's _sensational_. There's a _reason_ they came up with that term, Mr. Summers," he added, "and I suggest that we make use of it." 

"What you're asking me to write," I said hotly, "sounds like something out of the National Enquirer." 

"Don't be a prude," Pietro scoffed. His twenty-three years were showing. "The times are changing now; it's the _information age_. People aren't just interested in the facts anymore." 

"Just because some of the media are portraying biased viewpoints--" I began, but Pietro held up a hand, seeming all business again. A cruel, calculating sort of business. Like the business of someone who skinned the fleece off of sheep and painted them strange colors or something. Or maybe just like the business of someone who wanted sensationalistic reporting to overtake decent journalism. Jesus, I was going to spit in his coffee later on. 

"I didn't call you here to discuss ethics, Mr. Summers," Pietro--sorry, _Mr._ Maximoff--said, smiling only slightly now. "I recommend you fix your article." 

"I think it's fine," I said. The wood of the armrests was cutting into my palms. 

"I think it's fairly decent," Pietro said, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. 

"Yes, it's very decent," I said. "I have just the facts." 

"It's not enough," Pietro said. 

"Then what do you want?" There was a hint of cologne that wasn't mine on the collar of my dress shirt. I tried to ignore it, but couldn't help grimacing slightly, unable to forget it, since I knew whose it was and how I might never see that person again. And it was all the fault of the intolerable little brat sitting in front of me. Okay, so I might not have all the seniority required to call Pietro a brat, and maybe I was a little--maybe a lot--biased against him, but he was still a brat. An intolerable brat, who was trying to get in Jean's little sister's pants. _Jesus_, maybe I'd pour glue in his coffee instead. 

"I already told you what I want," Pietro said, very cross now. Didn't have your afternoon nap, P.J.? 

"Well, I--" 

"How about this," Pietro crossed his right ankle over his other knee and drummed his fingers on the desk, "You get a revised copy to me," writing in big letters at the top of my draft now, "by tomorrow morning, nine sharp..." he finished with a flourish and looked up at me, "or you're fired." 

He said it so sweetly and simply I almost didn't catch it. I stared at him. _Bastard_. 

"Or how about this," I said. "You take that draft and run it by the copy desk, tomorrow morning, nine sharp," I stood up and Pietro watched me, seeming almost amused, "because I quit." 

"How charming of you," Pietro said. 

"Go to hell," I said. 

And that was that. My career at the College Press Times was over. And Thank God. 

I packed up my cubicle and immediately headed over to Jean's apartment. Once I got there, I hesitated and almost didn't knock. After I did knock, I just kind of stared into my box of random office supplies and _really_, _really_ hoped that Jean and Kurt weren't doing some sort of strange making-out sort of thing. 

The door opened, and Jean blinked at me for a few seconds. 

"_No_, you didn't," she said, sounding horrified. 

"He was going to fire me," I said. "So I quit." 

"_Scott_," she said, grabbing me by the elbow and ushering me inside. 

I must've looked a lot more pathetic than I thought I did, because she immediately put the teakettle on and took out a can of powdered hot chocolate. 

"It's seventy-seven degrees outside," I said, thinking that maybe I ought to inform her that not everyone drank hot chocolate when it was warm outside. And it _was_ warm. 

Just a little. 

"I don't care," she said, sitting down on the couch and pulling me down with her. I sighed and put the box on the coffee table. 

"Pietro wanted me to write a _sensationalistic_ story," I said bitterly. 

"He _what_?" Jean asked, startled. 

"Dirt," I said, letting my head fall back on the head of the sofa and staring up at the ceiling. "He wanted me to--to write about how big Lance's machinery is, how many years it's been since he's talked to his--his goddamned _parents_. He wanted me to--screw him over," I added softly. 

_Jesus_, I sounded melodramatic, but I didn't really care at this point. 

"Well, you _did_ screw him," Jean joked, but she still looked worried. It sounded weird hearing Jean say 'screw,' but I'm assuming that she did it because I had said it, too. Then again, it sounded weird hearing _me_ say 'screw,' too. 

"Jetlag," I said to myself. 

"What?" Jean asked. 

"Break-up jetlag," I said, grinning weakly. "I'm still saying some of the stuff he'd say even though--" 

"Oh, my God," she said. "You _broke up_? With Lance?" 

"No, with Barney McGee," I said wryly. 

"Why?" she asked, sounding absolutely aghast. 

"Because," I said miserably, "he knew before I did. He figured out that I was supposed to be there to get _dirt_. So he--well," I stopped myself before I could start blabbering and schooled myself to some semblance of calm. "It's over." 

Jean stared at me. 

I rubbed a hand over my face and grimaced. I hadn't _meant_ to disturb her so much. 

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to upset you." 

"I'm in shock," she said. 

"I'm sorry," I repeated, frowning and feeling pretty awful. 

"In _shock_," she repeated, then thwacked me on the head. 

"Ow!" I said, startled. I reached up to rub the back of my head. 

"You're an idiot," Jean said, scowling. "A grade-A _idiot_!" 

"What?" I asked, taken aback. 

"Most men are idiots," she continued as if she hadn't heard me, "but I expected _more_ of you--" 

"More _what_?" I asked, disgruntled. 

"Oh, I don't know," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe--_common sense_?" 

"Common _sense_?" I asked. Jesus, I was an idiot after breakups, wasn't I? I'd been repeating people all afternoon. 

Maybe what I really needed was a hearing aid, not hot chocolate in seventy-seven-degree weather. 

"So he's a moron," Jean said, throwing her hands up. "That doesn't mean _you_ have to be! He broke up with you for no reason--so you give him a reason _not_ to!" 

I blinked. "I--" 

"I'm not done yet," Jean said darkly, and I shut my mouth and scooted back on the couch so I was sitting up straight. 

Jesus H. _Christ_, Jean was scary as all hell when you got her started. 

"Call him up and leave him a message or something," she said. "He's a moron, but he can't be _that_ idiotic if you actually took time with him, right?" 

"He's stubborn," I said feebly, hoping I wouldn't get her inexplicably pissed at me. 

"Tie him to a chair and beat him with your shoe until he listens," she replied, looking like she was going to punch something. 

"Um," I said and laughed nervously. 

Then I got an idea. 

"My article," I said. 

"The source of all problems in the world," Jean declared. 

"No, no," I said. "I could send him my article." 

She paused mid-sentence, swerved to stare at me for one eerie moment, then grinned at me. 

"Start up the computer," she said. "I'll get our hot chocolate and be there in a sec." 

"Well, um, do you think I could do this alone?" I asked hesitantly. "Since it's personal...and...uh...guess not." 

I chuckled uneasily at the look she gave me and headed off to the computer. 

"What should I name it?" I asked when Jean came back. She handed me a mug of hot chocolate and I sipped at it. 

I'd written out the e-mail--standard, 'No, I'm _not_ bullshitting; please _read_' stuff--and was now staring at my article. I'd retrieved it from my desk, and as of now, it was merely named with the date and Lance's last name. 

"Uh, I don't know," Jean said blowing at her own mug. "'Read Me'?" 

I grinned wryly. "He'll probably reply with an empty e-mail saying 'Blow me' or something." 

She snorted. "Oh, you've got an _intelligent_ one here, Scott." 

I shook my head and edited the file name nonetheless. "I guess it's better than nothing." 

"It sounds important," she said with a grin. "'Readme.txt.' I like it." 

"It sounds like I'm trying to send a virus to him," I said. 

"Or something," she said vaguely, then said urgently, "Send it!" 

"Okay, okay," I said. "Give me a second." 

And so I sent it. 

It was unreal--I had never expected to find myself drinking hot chocolate in seventy-seven-degree weather, e-mailing rock stars, and then obsessively checking for new mail. Jesus, maybe I ought to run off and have a giggly slumber party and resign myself to my fate as Number One Groupie. 

That is, if you don't count Wanda. 

"What do we do now?" I wondered aloud. 

"I guess we wait," Jean said, seeming quite content to swirl at her melting marshmallows with a teaspoon. 

"Right," I said and sighed. "I knew that." 

Jesus. 

  


  


  


  


Tuesday morning came and went. I'd read all night in Jean's living room and had passed out around one o'clock--uncharacteristically late for me--so I was entirely unequipped to deal with eight o'clock's call to rise. I got up anyway, of course, figuring that I might as well get back in routine. Routine for _what_ exactly, I'm not sure, since I'm unemployed and all. I guess it doesn't really matter, though. It really depressed me that I'd have to go and clean out the rest of my belongings from my cubicle, but I'd survive. I'd scream a lot and drink about four pots of coffee to try to cheer myself up, but I'd survive. 

I took a shower and changed into the spare clothes I had in the hall closet. By the time I'd finished getting ready to face the world--suicide attempts involving a razor aside--Kitty had already waken up and was seated at the kitchen counter with a glass of orange juice in one hand and what appeared to be an encyclopedia in the other. 

"Good morning," I said. 

"'morning," Kitty replied vacantly, absorbed in her reading. 

"What's that?" I asked, gesturing at her book as I popped two pieces of bread into the toaster. 

"In depth reading on quarks and charms," she said. "Just some light reading." 

I grinned. 

"Sounds interesting," I said carefully. 

"Fascinating," Kitty agreed brightly. 

What riveting conversation. 

I busied myself by retrieving the margarine from the refrigerator and putting the coffee on. 

"So, I hear you just broke up with your latest boyfriend?" Kitty asked suddenly. 

I grimaced, imagining her beating me in the head with her thirty-two pounds of 'light reading' until my skull caved in. 

"Yeah, no one you'd know," I said. 

"What's his name?" Kitty said with girlish enthusiasm. "Maybe I'll recognize him from somewhere." 

Maybe you will, and then you'll chew my head off in fangirl rage. 

"I really doubt it," I said nervously. The toaster popped up two newly toasted pieces of toasted toast. (1) 

"Toast!" I said. "Would you like one?" 

"No," Kitty said slowly, looking at me as if I were shooting rays of death from my eyes. 

"Scott," I heard Jean yell from the bedroom, "did Lance e-mail you back yet?" 

Jean, I think you _deserve_ a boyfriend like Kurt who will saturate you in cheeseburger grease then take you to the local Y for something "special." 

"Uh," I said, "I have to go." 

Kitty stared at me, her eyes glazed over. I could practically hear the gears to her head grinding to a halt as her expression read 'Cannot process.' 

"I'll talk to you later, bye," I muttered quickly and left. 

Once outside, I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. 

_Jesus_. 

I called a cab and headed back to the CPT. When I got there, it seemed even emptier than before. In fact, I checked for a 'Out to lunch--be back in ten' sign out front. No sign of one. I wondered if everyone had gone. However, from the bowels of the abandoned hellhole, I heard the sounds of Pacman battling evil and proving me wrong. 

Bobby. 

"Bobby?" I called as I neared the A&E area. 

"Scott _Summers_," Bobby said cheerfully, wheeling out on a swivel chair and greeting me with a killer grin. 

"I thought you had mono," I said wryly. 

"The working man's ailment," he replied with an impish grin. "Maximoff called and offered me a raise." 

"So you sold your soul to the devil," I said. 

"I'm in _bondage_," he said with theatrical flair, then asked with interest, "Say, how'd that story assignment go? With Antisthenes?" 

"Oh, fabulous," I said. "I quit." 

"Yeow," Bobby said, starting and gawking at me. "You _what_?" 

"Quit," I said. 

"Yikes," he said. 

"Yep," I said. 

"Why?" he asked. 

"Pietro," I said. 

"Wh-o-a," he said. 

"Yes," I said. 

Bobby shook his head. "Scott--I never thought--" 

"I didn't either," I said. "It's fine, though. I'd rather find another job than work for Pietro." 

"So you're saying you'd rather be a _hobo_?" Bobby asked. 

I glared at him. "I'm not going to be a _hobo_." 

Bobby chortled and spun his chair around a few times. 

"Seriously, though," he said. "How'd the assignment go." 

"Alright," I said as calmly as I could. "They're interesting people." 

I tried not to think about Lance. 

"Swell," Bobby said, then leaned forward with a worrisome glint in his eyes. "Who was the opening band again?" 

"Uh, Chamber," I said. 

"God, they give me a boner," he said. 

I stared at him. _Thank_ you for this pleasant foray into the realm of Things I Didn't Want To Know. 

"Um," I said uneasily. "I didn't know you were into..." 

Into what? Goth? Cock? Jono's squeaky leather pants? 

"The old school goth junk?" Bobby asked. He smirked. "I'm not." 

"I'm going to go get my things now..." I said slowly, disturbed. 

Apparently, Bobby was just a little fruitier than we'd thought he was. 

Just a little. 

I packed up the rest of my personal belongings and briefly considered doing something rash like stealing a chair or etching, 'Oh, my _God_, someone help me--it _burns_...!!!' into the cubicle wall. A second thought involving lawsuits made me discard the notion, though, and I sighed, feeling strangely discontent about leaving the cardboard box of a workplace that had eaten the last few years of my life. 

To tell you the truth, though, I _guess_ I was going to miss the CPT. I'd held a stable job there for a while, and now I felt like I was just floating around aimlessly. 

Like a hobo. 

Jesus, I was starting to get paranoid. A mental image came to mind of me dressed in clothes fashioned out of tattered carpet and paper bags. The hobo me held up a half-eaten tuna fish melt procured from a nearby dumpster, then skewered an alley cat and clumsily made a hat out of it. 

Dear _Jesus_. 

"I need to get back to Jean before I have a goddamned aneurysm," I muttered. 

"Scot-t-t-t-t-t-t," I heard Bobby wail as I left the office, and I caught the beginning of Pietro yelling, "Mr. Drake, why isn't the sports page--!?" before the front door swung shut. 

Poor Bobby. Maybe I'd ask Lance to put in a good word for him with Jono. Oh, wait--I almost forgot; 

_Lance hates me_. 

I sighed miserably and called another cab. 

"The Mulridge building, please," I said. 

"_Where is he_?" growled the driver in response. 

I blinked and looked up. 

_Holy Jesus, son of Mary_. 

"My-Mystique," I stammered. 

She glared into the rearview mirror with a pair of rather angry, heart-shaped sunglasses, then floored the pedal. 

"Jesus!" I said. 

"Where is he?!" she shrieked back at me as we ran a red light. 

"This is all very cliché," I said, trying not to panic. 

Too many action movies for Mys-- 

"_Jesus_!" I yelped. "Watch out for the guardrail--!" 

There was a godawful screeching sound from the side of the taxi as we rode the guardrail, and I grimaced. It was as if someone had jammed eight-inch nails into my ears and was now shamelessly reducing my brain into bullet hole-riddled flan. 

"_Where_ is he?!" Mystique demanded once the unholy yowling had stopped. 

"Jesus," I said weakly. "You could irrigate a third-world _country_ with the side of this thing." 

"_Well_?!" Mystique sounded like she was going to reach down my throat, pull out my heart, and use it as a slightly ominous decorative piece for her living room coffee table. 

"'Well' what?" I squeaked. 

"Where is he?!" she yelled over people who'd began honking at us as we passed them at a hundred and seven miles per hour. 

"Where is _who_?" I yelled back, panicking. Christ, please stop_, Miss Psycho Stalker Girl_! 

"_Lance_," Mystique hissed. 

"Lance?" I asked, confused. 

"He's here!" 

"Here?" 

"Don't lie--I _followed_ him!" 

"You followed him?" 

"I followed him _here_!" 

"Here?" 

"_Lance_!" 

"Lance?--Ow!" Mystique hurled a pair of fuzzy purple dice back at me and head me square in the eye. _Thank you_ for saving me from one of the most asinine conversations of my life. 

"I haven't seen him," I muttered. 

"You're lying," Mystique growled. 

"I was too busy _quitting_ my _job_!" I protested. 

"_Li-ar_!" Mystique declared and began randomly chucking taxi trash back at me while driving with only one hand. 

"Ow--_Stop_ it!" I yelped as I dodged debris. An airborne toothbrush nearly gouged my eye out, but luckily only flew out the window and bounced off a parking meter. 

Suddenly, the cab sputtered to a stop and made a hissing sound, wheezing as it sank a little toward the ground. 

"Flat tire," I said, feeling rather mystified. It was all happening so quickly. 

"You _broke_ it," Mystique accused, sounding morally offended. 

I didn't have chance to defend my honor, however, as I was too busy running away. 

I ran almost four blocks before I stopped to catch my breath. I'd forgotten my box back in the Taxi Cab of Doom, but it didn't matter. I tried to stir up at least a little bit of concern for whatever might've been important in the box, but I couldn't focus on any of it: 

_Lance was in New York_. 

  


  


  


  


It took me a good forty-five minutes to get back to the apartment, mostly because I was taking a rather long and winding route in hopes to thwart any Scottnapping plans Mystique might be up to. 

I was down the hall and around the corner from Jean's door when I heard her talking to someone. Someone who smoked cigarettes and played with porcelain figurines and could deal with a lesson or two in a little thing called Communicating and Not Jumping To Conclusions. 

"...Oh. It's you," Jean said rather starkly. "Why're _you_ here?" 

I heard Lance cough uncomfortably and shift a little. 

"Wel-l," he said, sounding rather nonchalant. I could just imagine him slouching a little, his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. "I think I made a small mistake. Is Summers here?" 

"Hmm," Jean said. I heard her moving around a little, then asking rather innocuously, "What--what's that _smell_?" 

"What?" Lance now, sounding rather confused. 

A beat. "Oh. It's coming from you." 

There was a rather tense, yet perplexed silence. Then Jean said rather sweetly, 

"Smells like...testosterone." 

"H--" Lance started, and I quickly rounded the corner, hoping to avoid any bloodshed. 

"Lance," I said haltingly once I saw him. 

He looked--good. 

_Jesus_. 

Both Jean and Lance turned toward me, the former still looking rather peeved, and the latter just sort of puzzled. 

"Summers," Lance said. 

"Scott?" Jean said. 

"Jean," I said. 

"Jean?" Lance asked. 

"Lance," Jean said darkly. 

"Jean," I said. 

"Scott?" she asked. 

"Lance," I said. 

"Summers," he said. 

"_Scott_," she said. 

"Jean?" I asked. 

"Summers," Lance said. 

"Lance," Jean said. 

"Lance?" I said. 

"Scott," Jean said. 

"Jean?" I said. 

"Okay, _stop it_," Lance said loudly. 

I hid a smile and tried not to look giddy. 

"I need to talk to you," Lance said, looking at me. 

"Oops," I said softly, feeling kind of dizzy. "The voting booths're closed. Come again tomorrow?" 

"Scott," Lance said, and suddenly, he struck me as pleading and secretly desperate despite his indifference. He was also hot and wearing shades. 

"Rooftop," I said, glancing at Jean. She crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow. 

"Let's go," Lance said, and I turned to retrace my steps to the stairs, expecting and hoping he'd follow. Or at least have the decency to tell me to screw off so I'd know that I was wasting my time. 

It was windy on the roof, but it was in a peaceful sort of way. A _smoggy_ peaceful, to be sure, but everything still seemed so distant--probably because there were a good twenty stories of cement and air between us and the street. 

"So, what did you want?" I asked, trying to sound unconcerned. 

"You," Lance said with a slight smirk. 

He shifted so that he was leaning against the five-foot concrete wall around the rim of the roof. I grinned and pressed my back to it from beside him. 

"I got your e-mail," he said. 

"Wow, so you _do_ check it," I said. 

"Toldja," he said, grinning briefly. 

There was a moment of silence, then he asked, 

"You didn't get fucked, did you?" 

"I fucked myself," I said. I hesitated. "You were right, you know." 

"I'm always right," Lance said, but turned toward me curiously. 

"He wanted sensationalism," I said, grimacing. "I should've seen it coming, but..." 

"You got fired?" Lance studied the traffic below us. 

"I quit," I said. "I showed him the article, and it didn't cut it." 

"Shitwit," he said. "Doesn't know fuckin' good journalism when he fuckin' sees it." 

"Journalism," I said, slightly surprised, just as he began slowly, "Listen--" 

I coughed. 

"You go first," I said. 

He gave me a slightly amused look. 

"Wel-l," he said, "I was just gonna say that, y'know..." 

He stalled and stared a stop sign. 

Feeling rather benevolent, I suggested, "I think what you're trying to say starts with 'I'm' and ends with 'sorry.'" 

"Yeah, that," he said vaguely. 

I quirked an eyebrow at him. 

"What?" he said, glancing around. "You already fuckin' know, so..." 

"Now that I don't have a job," I said placidly, "I have all day." 

He coughed. "Well, I'm..." 

"Sorry?" I said. 

"Sure," He said. 

I crossed my arms. 

"I apologize in a very fuckin' apologizing manner?" he tried with mock-sweetness. 

"That works," I said. 

He ran a hand through his hair. 

"You're a fuckin' woman, I swear," he said, but he was smiling at me. 

"Play nice," I said. 

"Fuck you," he said. 

"Lance," I muttered, and we kissed. 

"You're supposed to wait for me to insult you back," I said when we parted. 

"I'm impatient," he said, grinning crookedly at me. 

"There's a difference between impatient and spas_modic_," I replied and he snorted. 

"Spas_modic_," he repeated, cramming all his incredulity into three syllables. 

"Spasmo-o-odic," I said. 

He shoved me, then draped a haphazard arm around my shoulders. 

"Fuck," he said good-naturedly. "You _journalists_." 

I grinned at him and said slowly, "I think we just had a happy ending." 

"Hmm," Lance said as he thoughtfully dragged us both down so that we were sitting on the ground, side by side, backs against the wall. 

"At least 'til we go on an actual tour," he said. 

I blinked. "What? When?" 

"Tour, next week," he replied easily. 

"Where? _How_?" 

"Europe, fantastical flying machines made of metal and frozen yogurt." 

"Europe," I said, choosing to ignore Lance and his yogurt for the time being. "For how long?" 

He shrugged. I frowned and asked, 

"Do you want my phone number?" 

Lance grinned lazily at me. 

"Why don't you fuckin' e-mail it to me?" 

"Jesus," I said, and he laughed. 

Game, set, match. Everything'd turned out--well, _not_ according to plan. It seemed to make an odd sort of sense, I guess. I mean, I was searching for a new job, dating a transcontinental rock star, and dodging kitschy attempts at hijacks by a creepy middle-aged stalker who was in love with my boyfriend. Life was turning out to be fabulous. 

Speaking of fabulous, the grapevine says that Todd and Wanda broke up. After talking Freddy into taking up bass, Todd's garage band became a brief local phenomenon before they faded back into obscurity. They moved out to Florida and are happily playing Elvis covers in retirement homes, though. They even hired some guy named Paul Barry (2) to be their official 'coffee man.' Unfortunately, after disappearing for a week, Paul showed up on Todd's doorstep babbling about groundhogs, aliens and Christmas trees. He then eloped with a disgruntled Shell's Angel (a burly woman riding a Harley and wearing a strange bikini-mermaid-barwench get-up) and was never heard from again. 

Wanda was not as blessed as Todd was, as she simply became a go-go dancer pretending to be a goth pretending to be a vampire pretending to be sexually attracted to men who weren't in Antisthenes. 

Jubilee kept in touch with Todd, as far as I know, and constantly flooded my inbox with chain letters about "making my wish come true"--something which I highly suspect is a euphemism. She reportedly had a brief fling with Johnny before they both realized that the sheer hyperactive energy between them might be combustible should errant hormones be added to the mix. Therefore, to avoid bringing about the apocalypse, they refrained from any possible baby-making acts. 

(Lance tells me that this is not true, and that the only reason they didn't have a relationship was because they felt it was too strange and something akin to incest. I like my explanation better.) 

In any case, the two have continued with business as usual: Jubilee attempting to capture homoerotica on video, and Johnny constantly hassling passersby and shamelessly flirting with Tabitha. 

At this point in time, Tabitha has apparently not imploded in a random act of cellular ignition. However, the probability of her spontaneously becoming popcorn chicken remains high, and Mr. Xavier will no doubt be nearby to dip her in honey mustard sauce. Since she has yet to become tasty pseudo-food, Mr. Xavier has been busying himself with exploring the wonderful world of walk-in refrigerators. He's either planning on preserving his victims in case he gets the late night munchies, or he's going to buy lots and lots of cheese and other assorted dairy products. 

Meanwhile, in the back of the tourbus, I hear Weasel and Forge's six-year-difference relationship is alive and well and kicking. Or, at least, screaming--loudly, at that. 

Forced to occupy herself somewhere other than the bus, Rogue ran into Mystique at a crosswalk and proceeded to have an epic battle of pissed-off-womanly proportions. I hear the loser was forced to try out Mr. Xavier's meat locker--that is, refrigerator--and since I haven't heard of Antisthenes getting a new drummer, I'm assuming the best. 

(Lance informs me that Mystique was not, in fact, sliced into lunchmeat, and had actually only been hospitalized for head trauma that she inflicted on herself while attempting to climb out the window of a police cruiser and consequently falling into a trashcan with a bicycle wheel stuffed in it. She recently awoke from her morphine-induced coma [the nurse had accidentally given her an incorrect dosage] with amnesia, and has now settled down with a nice blond woman named Irene and her seventeen cats. Again, I like my explanation better.) 

In international news, Kitty invented sperm-friendly microwaves, preliminary hyperspace drives with pink liquid crystal displays and coffee holders, and a whole line of Antisthenes-themed compass kits. Apparently, NASA's drooling down the back of her shirt, and she may soon be headed down to Texas to do some 'light' high-tech tinkering. 

Had Kitty planned on leaving sooner, I'm sure Jean would've invited Kurt to come live with her. As it stands, though, both Jean and Kurt overcame their temporary bout of insanity and broke up. Jean reconciled with Ray (whose mohawk had become three times spikier since I last saw him), and Kurt sequestered himself away to work on his comic book for Slave Labor Graphics. 

This was, of course, after he quit the CPT. In fact, _everyone_ seemed to quit the CPT except for Bobby, who stayed on the payroll and in his cubicle until the bitter, bitter end. Unfortunately, since Bobby was only playing Pacman and not actually doing _work_ in his cubicle, he effectively and single-handedly sucked what life and funds had remained in the now-defunct CPT. He then used his money to go to London for 'business.' Maybe to buy bootleg Beatles memorabilia? 

(Lance's explanation is that Bobby's boinking Jono. I have no alternative explanation, and so I guess we have to stick with that one--no matter how disturbing it is.) 

What of Pietro, you ask? 

Well, he was last seen working at Mr. Chicken, a family-owned chain-restaurant that stems from Ohio and makes its employees wear ridiculous hats and aprons that look like flattened clown pants. 

As for Lance and me...well, I don't know. I'm meeting him at a coffee shop at two tomorrow. Or is it three? 

I'd better give him a call and make sure. 

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


~fin~ 

  


  


  


(1) Sorry XD I couldn't help it. 

(2) Not Paul from the series--it's more of an inside joke. (see BatE (;) 


End file.
